#Maybe more blood/ichor from their head?? but they look much better as a follower and a little more healed

[cconfusedkat]

Mfs dont even say bless you no more they just look at you like this

[givemea-dam-break]

daughters of the evening

⭒⭒⭒⭒ in which luke’s descent from good may be found.

pairing: luke castellan x (fem) reader

a/n: hey guys!! first fic in a while and i know, i know, pjo book readers are disappointed in me… but i’m just a girl! i’m literally just a girl! please enjoy my brain baby i love her :) i love writing quests so much, so this was really nice to write for my first fic back on tumblr. i hope you guys enjoy! if anybody wants to be added to my pjo taglist, let me know!

warnings: canon typical violence, book spoilers, blood/injury description, rusty writing

words: 5.8K ⭒⭒⭒⭒

(y/n) couldn’t remember when the change in Luke became permanent.

She could remember the hints of something at the corners of his eyes, something that bit at the happiness that filled them, eating away at it like rot on wood. She could remember the slow decline in his respect for his father, respect that had barely been there for years, though was now bridging on outright disrespect.

She could remember the crux of it all, the very moment in which all of the little things began to coalesce into something ugly. A flash of claws, the deep scarlet of mortal blood followed by shimmering gold ichor. The horrible sound of screaming. Gleaming fruits of gold. Gorgeous, blooming green trees towering above them that concealed the violence below.

It was after the quest that Luke, her Luke, was never the same.

⭒⭒

“I don’t remember San Francisco looking like this.”

Luke’s lips curled into a smile. “You’ve never been to San Francisco.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen it in movies through which I have lived vicariously. It’s in one of the Indiana Jones’s, right? Looks different.”

“Those movies are from the eighties,” Luke said. “So, yeah, it’s going to look different.”

Charles Beckendorf, their questmate, heaved a sigh. “Do you guys ever stop?”

“Stop what?” (y/n) asked.

“Being annoying? Flirting? Whatever you want to call it.”

Her face felt awfully hot and she found herself unable to even look in Luke’s general direction. It was a comment that had been made many times in the past, one she was sure Luke was sick to death of, but she found herself yearning for comments like it. They meant that maybe she wasn’t dreaming up something between them.

Either way, she didn’t acknowledge it, rather stuffing her hand into her unzipped backpack and scrounging around until finally she found what she wanted. With a dramatic flair, she revealed three paper maps, each embellished with their names written in colourful pen at the top.

A moment of silence, then Luke said, “Why do we need a map each? Can’t we just share? And where did you even get those?”

“I got them back in Salt Lake City, before we happened upon that massive crab, you remember the one? All blue and slimy.” She pressed the maps into their hands. “There are multiple because knowing you both, you’ll lose them and I’m not buying any more. But, look! They’re colour-coded. Green for me because, duh, Demeter. Orange for Beckendorf, red for you. We can at least make this quest for some stupid apples interesting.”

Beckendorf raised a brow, giving her a strange look. “With glittery gel pen?”

“Glittery gel pen makes everything better,” she insisted. “I’m glad you acknowledge that. Now, come on. With all this talking you two have been doing, we don’t have much time to spare. You’re like a pair of gossiping grannies.”

The two shared a look over her head, one they thought she didn’t see, but it only made her hold back a laugh. They were a relatively upbeat group as it was, but she prided herself on keeping the mood light, especially when danger was looming. With the might of glittery gel pens, a travel-size game of Monopoly, and a cheesy puns book they had picked up off the side of the road, they would be unstoppable should their enemies need a good laugh.

It wasn’t that they weren’t capable of what was ahead of them that she felt the need to joke around, it was just her regular nerves. The three of them were experienced and powerful demigods, skilled fighters and strategists, the best of the best. Luke had his immense skill with a sword and the mind of a trickster; Beckendorf had the brains and strength of a blacksmith, and could sense a trap a mile away and disarm it in moments; (y/n) herself was a powerful daughter of Demeter and, though not to the standard of Luke, was also skilled with a sword.

They hadn’t faced much trouble before. They were a tried-and-tested trio, having been on multiple quests together in the past and finding themselves working well together. 

This time, it seemed like a match made by the Fates. A quest ordained by Hermes, Luke’s father, to retrieve the Apples of Immortality from the Garden of the Hesperides - gardens and plants being the domain of Demeter and, by extension, (y/n). And, no doubt, there would be many traps or the need for a strong mind, hence Beckendorf. He was a year or two younger than she and Luke, but had proved himself upon countless occasions. She trusted him with her life.

Almost a week now they’d been on this quest, and still she felt like a giddy child. Almost seventeen and, at her big age, she was holding back smiles and giggles befitting of a schoolgirl with a crush. Part of it was gratefulness that a demigod such as Luke had chosen her to join him on this quest, even after being friends for years and having gone on numerous quests together already. Part of it was simply that she was madly in love with the boy.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then, watching the way the afternoon sun gleamed on his face, setting his dark eyes alight with flame. There was a curious smile on his lips, one that concealed mischief and intelligence; one she had loved for as long as she could remember. His hair was messy after days of travelling and not bothering to fuss with it - she dreaded to think of what her own looked like, the only mirror she had being her sword - but there was something so extremely endearing about it. Wild curls that gave his lightly-freckled face even more life.

Their maps didn’t help their hunt for the Garden an awful lot. For what had to have been at least two hours, they stumbled around the city, turning this way and that, earning odd looks from strangers. 

“For being the son of the god of travellers,” (y/n) said, “you are horrendous at reading a map.”

Luke gave her a nudge with his elbow as he scanned the map. He was grinning. Her stomach was doing cartwheels. “Maps make sense enough, but I think these ones are out of date.”

“Maps don’t go out of date, stupid.”

Beckendorf was holding back a smile. “I think he’s right. I think our maps are too old.”

(y/n) glowered at them, plucking their maps from their hands. Fine. They didn’t deserve to hold maps graced with her glittery gel pens anyways.

“Well,” she said. “Unless either of you have any ideas, we’re going to be stuck wandering for hours. Come on, Luke. Use your magicky journey powers. They got us this far.”

His eyes shone, and her knees felt a little weak. She loved it when he looked at her like that, when she had said something funny. It was as though the heavens themselves had descended and flooded his face with light and beauty. She couldn’t look away.

“It’s a big garden,” he retorted. “Find the big garden, daughter of the mighty Demeter!”

She knew he meant it as a joke - the sarcasm was practically dripping from his voice - but there was something in his tone that she couldn’t identify. Something deeper than a simple sarcastic comment. This had been a pity quest, of sorts, she knew. Luke had been getting restless and his father had wanted to satiate him, but it wasn’t enough. He was displeased with the gods, to say the least.

But he kept a good lock on his expressions, on his words. She wouldn’t have suspected a thing had she not known him as well as she knew the feeling of grass beneath her feet.

Eventually, combining their powers and the single brain cell that seemed to be taken by Beckendorf, they found their way to the Mount Tamalpais State Park, which was not open to visitors now that the sun was setting.

They stared up at the distant mountain, the sloping greenland and towering trees that led towards it, and heaved a synonymous groan. Quests could never be even slightly easy, it seemed. Why would the gods let them head to a random park in the city when they could have them trespassing in a state park at night, lives in the hands of the monsters and animals alike that roamed the woods? The gods would rather have them arrested than have something be easy.

“You’re kidding, right?” Beckendorf said. “We don’t have to walk all that way?”

(y/n) frowned. She wished more than anything that they could just turn around and leave, a feeling she did not often get on quests. But something didn’t feel right. There was a twist in her gut, a deep intuition that told her something was going to go wrong.

But her gut was also pulling her towards the mountain. There was a power there, unlike any she had felt before, and she wanted to know what it was. 

“We’ll be fine,” she insisted, though she didn’t feel entirely sure herself.

She was the first to make the step towards their darkening fates. If she had known the outcome, she would have turned and fled immediately.

The three of them trudged up the path, flicking on torches when the sky grew darker and the ground in front of them too hard to see. It gave them an eerie glow, entirely unlike the warm glow of their weapons. All of their features were in stark contrast to the dark surroundings; Luke’s cheekbones, Beckendorf’s eyes, her brownbone. It was disconcerting, and it felt all too much like they were the lead characters in a ghost story.

She was considering turning back about halfway there. The tug in her gut was becoming stronger, almost unbearable, and her head was pounding, filled with the worry of the possible incidents that had not happened yet. 

The only thing that kept her going was Luke’s pinky finger wrapped around hers.

Maybe he felt her nerves, so acute that she feared her sinews and tendons and bones could snap at any moment. But Luke knew her. He had known her since they were barely teenagers. He knew her better than she knew herself: every habit she had; every face she made; every hint of a feeling before she knew it was coming. He had some deep understanding of her, one that would have made her feel vulnerable in any other situation with any other person. Luke was not any other person.

His pinky was wrapped around hers tightly, warmer than the rest of her body put together. It curled around hers just so, acknowledging her worry. His jacket sleeve brushed hers.

It wasn’t until they reached the Garden at the foot of the mountain that his hand wrapped around hers fully, encasing it entirely in warmth and comfort. His palms were calloused, fingers ribbed with light scars, but she could not imagine it any other way.

The Garden of the Hesperides was easily the most beautiful place she had ever seen and was likely the most beautiful place she would ever see. Stars hung above them in the night sky, glittering so brightly it was as though they could reach out and touch them with their outstretched fingers. Lush green grass coated the ground beneath their feet and beyond, speckled with flowers so bright they almost glowed in the dark. It was bristling with life, so full of it that (y/n) could feel it all deep in her bones.

But the source of the power lay further afield.

A tree, much taller than the rest, stood at the centre of the garden, boasting more golden apples than (y/n) could count. Its branches swayed in the faint breeze in mesmerising swoops, and the scent of fresh fruit laced with something that could only be described as addictive brushed over them. A faint mist swirled around the trunk of the tree, glittering slightly in the moonlight.

“Holy Hephaestus,” Beckendorf murmured, slack-jawed.

“That’s one big tree,” Luke said. 

“You certainly have a way with words,” (y/n) said.

His hand only squeezed hers in response. She could feel his heartbeat in his wrist. How was it so steady?

There was a shift in the wind, then, and a soft bite came into the air. Goosebumps prickled the skin of their arms, raising the hair there. She wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but she swore she could hear the faintest lull of singing voices and could feel the weight of some large presence in the air. Nothing could be seen but the beautiful garden and the decadent tree in the centre.

“Luke Castellan,” said a soft voice. Luke visibly tensed, eyes narrowing at the usage of his surname. “(y/n) (l/n). Charles Beckendorf. We have been expecting you in our Garden for quite some time now.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. But, finally, after a few moments, the speaker emerged from the fine mist.

She didn’t look like much, appearing to be barely older than (y/n), but there was something about her surrounding aura that suggested she was much, much older. Dark, inky hair tumbled over narrow tawny shoulders, framing even darker eyes that shone with unknown magic. The woman seemed to blink slowly, as if bored or tired, and it looked as though she were merely floating over the ground rather than walking. It was hard to tell. Her Greek chiton covered her feet.

“We are the Hesperides,” she said, voice ever gentle, as four more women appeared, each almost identical in appearance. “Daughters of the Evening. Nymphs of the Sunset. Protectors of this Garden. What is your business here?”

There was a cockiness to Luke’s smile then, one that had (y/n) on edge. “If you’ve been expecting us, then surely you know our business.”

The lead Hesperide drew nearer, stopping a few feet away from their trio. Her sisters gathered at her sides, dark eyes sparkling with stars and cold curiosity and something overtly bitter. The demigods were clearly unwelcome here, but they intended to make a game of their quest.

(y/n)’s hand squeezed Luke’s in warning. He spared her a glance, her heart drawing still when his warm eyes met hers. His chin dipped slightly in a nod, and he gave her hand a squeeze before turning his attention back to the Hesperides.

“We’ve been sent here on a quest by my father Hermes,” Luke announced. His voice held more confidence than she felt. “We’re here to retrieve a golden apple.”

It was strange watching the Hesperides’ heads tilt in unison as if they were each an extension of the other. Voices lulled around them, soft and gentle, and the worry seeped from her very bones. Her hand fell from Luke’s. Something felt strangely at ease in her stomach despite their circumstances.

“You may try,” said the lead Hesperide. Her skin glimmered like marble in the moonlight. “Our dearest Ladon protects this tree with his life. He does not sleep. Every second of every day, he guards our gift from Gaea, the goddess Hera’s wedding gift. Do not think it will be easy to pass him.”

The Hesperides seemed to fade into the mist, then, their bodies becoming light and transparent as they slowly backed away until nothing was left but the faint singing swirling around them. The voices gave (y/n) a strange feeling, as though pulling her towards the tree.

“Who’s Ladon?” Beckendorf asked.

The three of them stood for a moment, watching the swirling mist.

“A dragon,” (y/n) said. “A big dragon.”

She could feel his presence, she realised. The heavy weight that had settled over them upon entering the Garden, it couldn’t be anything else. Even still, she could feel him through the ground, like an impending sense of death and doom. She’d had similar feelings before, an innate knowledge that the strawberry fields were close to wilting one year. Campers had called her crazy, but she knew. The earth knew.

And it knew now. She was horribly aware of the heaviness in her gut that surrounded the bright power of the apple tree. It could be nothing but Ladon.

“Any ideas, Luke?” she asked. “You’re our idea guy.”

He scoffed. “Since when? You’ve been dragging us around by our ears this entire quest.”

But he could see the nerves that she felt. He knew how strange this was for her, to feel so deeply worried about a quest. He knew something was wrong.

“I’ll get the apple,” he said, and his shoulders rose with confidence. His hand, the one that had held (y/n)’s moments ago, twitched just so. “I’m the fastest out of the three of us. You two, keep our friend distracted.”

There was a deep grumble at that moment, as if Ladon were making himself known. It shook the ground and the boughs of the tree trembled. Sweet-smelling apples tumbled into the mist.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to get the apples?” (y/n) asked. “You brought along a daughter of Demeter for a reason.”

He smiled softly at her. “That’s not the reason I brought you along.”

And, before either she or Beckendorf could protest his stupidity or question his statement, Luke’s glowing sword materialised in his hand and he was running into the mist.

The mist spread apart as his feet made contact, and (y/n)’s heart dropped. Beckendorf, one of the bravest demigods she had ever met despite his age, had a tremor in his hands as he pulled free his sword.

Within the mist was the largest monster (y/n) had ever seen. It was wrapped around the tree in a serpentine-like way, scales glimmering in the moonlight like molten copper and bronze. Massive claws sunk into the dirt surrounding the tree, at least the length of her forearm and as wide as Beckendorf’s. Every breath it released shook the branches of the tree as though caught in a gale.

The most horrifying part: the dragon had a hundred heads.

She had read about Ladon, had familiarised herself with the myths surrounding the Hesperides. Days before the quest, she and Luke had sat down at the canoe lake, poring over old history books that told the tale of Heracles and his Twelve Labours, one of which was the very quest they were being made to repeat. Luke had made a joke of it back then, unhappy with the quest he had been given and disbelieving that what they faced would be much of a threat.

But Ladon was no joke. It was an entirely different thing seeing drawings of the dragon and seeing him in real life. His hundred heads slithered through the air like snakes on the water, luminous yellow eyes watching the demigods with piqued interest. 

Even Luke faltered.

A deep breath came from all two hundred of the dragon’s nostrils, washing over them in a hot, acidic wave. The smell alone was horrendous, like an old, decrepit sewer filled with rotting rats, and it had the hairs on her arms standing and her eyes burning. 

She was worried that she may never be able to move again, frozen in place by the sheer might of Ladon, but when Luke turned to look at her, blood flooded into her veins again. He was counting on her. She wouldn’t let him down.

Ladon expected a frontal assault. He was waiting for Luke to attack, watching like a predator on prey, but he did not expect the very tree he protected to act against him.

With a heave of energy, (y/n) stretched out her arm and watched as the tree’s trunk began to swell as if filling with liquid. Ladon’s serpentine body writhed around it, twisting as he moved to accommodate the growing tree. The branches above him shook, dipping towards the ground slowly. Too slowly.

The dragon seemed to realise what, or who, was causing the change, and snarled ferociously. It was at that moment that Beckendorf grabbed a ball of Celestial bronze from his belt and, with a strong arm and remarkably good aim, threw it at the beast.

An explosion of green ignited before them as the ball slammed into Ladon’s thick hide. The dragon roared, whether in pain or fury, and set its bright gaze on (y/n) and Beckendorf.

Fear coursed through her body. She could hardly breathe. The branches wavered, pausing the pursuit to the ground. Beckendorf launched another one of his Celestial bronze bombs.

A pity quest, that’s what this had been. But, maybe, it was more than that. Maybe this was Hermes’ punishment for Luke wanting more from his life. Maybe this was (y/n)’s consequence for falling so irrevocably in love with Luke - for feeling the way she did, she would have to follow him to impossible circumstances.

But none of them deserved it.

It was at that moment that Luke took his leap.

With speed befitting a child of Hermes, he leapt onto Ladon’s mighty body, feet finding purchase on his rough scales, and launched himself upwards towards the descending branches.

For a moment, there was hope. Even Heracles had not retrieved the apples by facing Ladon, but maybe Luke would. Perhaps Luke would succeed where Heracles had not. Pride swelled in her heart, coated her tongue like warm honey, and she almost smiled.

Copper-coloured claws flashed in the moonlight. A chorus of soft, harmonising voices swirled around them like mist.

Mistake, they sang. The boy has made a mistake.

There was a cry of pain so guttural that (y/n) felt it in her soul. Her feet were moving before she could truly comprehend what was happening. The grass tried to reach for her ankles, tried to stop her in her mission, but nothing could. Had a god stood before her, she would have found her way past them. Nothing could stop her, not even this dragon that caused such fear in her bones.

She reached Luke as Ladon wound around the tree tightly, snarling protectively. Something in the beast’s demeanour hinted at pain beneath the danger, and when she saw the gold blood pooling just a few feet away, she knew why.

A claw, one of Ladon’s, severed from the knuckle down lay strewn in the grass. The dragon hissed as Beckendorf snatched it up, hefting his sword as (y/n) pulled Luke away.

He was bleeding badly. A deep gash ran from the tip of his brow down to the corner of his  mouth, somehow missing his eye but cutting just above and below. His skin was already becoming dangerously pale. Her hands were covered in blood. His blood. She was going to be sick.

“Hey,” she murmured, gently laying his head on her lap. Her hands trembled as she reached into her bag. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Luke shuddered, eyes half-lidded and struggling to find something to focus on. “Are you -?”

“I’m fine,” she said. After a terrible moment, one that took far too long, she pulled free a small vial of nectar, wrapped tightly in old face-cloths to keep it from smashing in her bag. Her hands couldn’t stop shaking as she tried to unwrap it.

Beckendorf knelt beside her, claw at his side, and took the vial from her hands. She didn’t know how his hands could be so steady. She could hardly breathe. Not with Luke so injured, not with Ladon eyeing them hungrily.

He handed the vial back, and she propped Luke’s head up slightly. With a hiss of pain, she managed to open his mouth just enough to pour the small amount of nectar in. He swallowed with a struggle.

There was no telling how long it would take the nectar to work, but they couldn’t stay there under the watchful glare of Ladon, who looked ready to attack again. (y/n) took a trembling breath.

“Beckendorf,” she said, “are you able to carry him? At least until we can get out of this place. I can try - I can clean the wound when we’re safe.”

He nodded and hoisted Luke up into his arms, careful not to jostle his head too much.

She didn’t realise she had been crying until they stopped.

Beckendorf set Luke down on a soft patch of grass beyond the Garden, and (y/n) tucked her jacket underneath his head. The nectar seemed to be working, albeit slowly. Some colour was returning to his skin, but it was hard to see under all of the blood.

“You’re okay,” she murmured again, but she wasn’t sure who she was telling. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands.

She grabbed one of the face-cloths the vial of nectar had been wrapped in, soaking it in water from her water bottle, and slowly brought it to Luke’s face.

His eyes seemed to have some ability to focus now, watching her beneath a glaze of pain. It tore her soul in half to see him in pain, wincing as she gently dabbed the blood from his cheek. Her fingers were stained. His cheek was, too.

“I’m going to keep watch,” said Beckendorf. “Those Hesperides gave me a bad feeling.”

(y/n) nodded, watching for a moment as he trudged a few feet away, just out of earshot, but her focus soon returned to Luke. She tried not to think too much about how his hand was gripping her knee as she cleaned the rest of the blood.

“Is the nectar working?” she asked when she saw his eyes drooping. “What does it taste like?”

His gaze found hers, warm and cloudy. A pained smile fought its way onto his lips despite the slowly-healing scar on his cheek. She could see the skin trying to sew itself back together with the aid of the nectar.

“That smoothie you made a few months back with the - with the camp’s strawberries,” he uttered. “And whatever those green leaves were.”

She found herself smiling despite the red coating her hands. “Mint. And it was that good, huh? Last I checked, nectar for you tasted like that weird concoction of Coke and Sprite you liked so much.”

For a moment, his eyes grew distant before refocusing on her face. They flickered over her features as if seeing them for the first time. His hand felt awfully warm on her knee.

“Anything you make is better,” he said. 

“Is that so?” She brushed his hair back from his face softly, cleaning the last bits of blood.

His skin was still stitching itself back together, but the nectar seemed to have stopped the bleeding. Second by second, blood flooded back into his face, giving him the colour that seemed to have been leached from his skin.

He nodded, his smile seeming as though it pained him less. His hand slipped from her knee, coming up to wrap itself around hers. The cloth fell from her fingers and onto the grass. Her fingers were still wet, though in the dim light she couldn’t tell if it was from water or lingering blood. She didn’t have the stomach to find out.

“You said you didn’t bring me on this quest because of my mother,” she said cautiously. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “So why did you?”

A soft squeeze of her hand. “This wasn’t a quest I wanted to do without you,” he said. “I like having you by my side. You give me strength.”

She was sure he could feel her pulse beating rapidly in her fingers, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t need to. It was entirely likely that he was able to read her mind, he knew her so well. And she was okay with that.

“You’re stupid, you know,” she said, but her voice wavered.

“Stupidly brave?” he suggested. “Stupidly handsome? Stupidly charming?”

“I’m supposed to be supporting you right now,” she grumbled. “Not the other way around.”

His cocky grin was back and her heart fluttered. “Which one is it?”

“Which what?”

“Stupidly brave, handsome, or charming?”

All three, she thought. All three and so much more.

“Stupidly stupid,” she decided. 

Her thumb grazed his cheekbone, the one without the scar, and a shiver ran through his body. His hand tightened on hers and his smile softened into something more personal. It was the kind of smile she would have leapt into Tartarus to ensure its permanence on his lips. Soft and kind and reserved just for her. If she'd been standing, her knees would have buckled.

“You give me strength, too,” she murmured.

A sliver of hair slipped in front of her eyes, and moments later, Luke’s free hand was there, gently brushing it away. His eyes sparkled. They seemed clearer now, less agonised.

The events of the last hour - gods, it had felt like much longer - came crashing back onto her at his touch, asphyxiating and terrifying. Overwhelming guilt filled her veins and arteries with terrible speed, sapping all the strength from her bones. Her fingers trembled once more.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her throat felt suddenly raw. “If I’d done a better job distracting Ladon, maybe you wouldn’t be hurt.”

Luke’s eyes were dark for a moment, swirling with something she couldn’t identify, but they softened seconds later. His hand rested on her cheek, warm and comforting, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at his eyes now.

“This is not your fault,” he said, and his voice was remarkably strong. “This is the gods’ fault. It’s my father’s fault. But it is not your fault.”

She tried to believe him, truly she did, but looking at the fresh scar on his face, even having been almost entirely healed with nectar, had her heart heavy in her chest. 

He knew this. Gods, he knew her every thought. His hand slipped from hers, cupping her other cheek and tilting her head so that she would look at him properly. There was a flush to his cheeks now - good, it meant he was getting better. 

“My father did this,” he insisted. “You hear me? This was not you. And, gods, believe me when I say that I’m glad it was me that went for the apples and not you. I couldn’t live with myself if you got injured.”

But you did, she wanted to say - no, scream. How do I live with that?

“I’m okay,” he said softly, cautiously, as if talking to a child who had just woken from a nightmare. “I’m okay.”

His hand fell from her face, taking hers in its grip once more, and placed her fingers on the newly formed scar.

She jerked back, terrified that the sensation would cause him more pain, but he just gave her that smile again, the one that made her knees feel like jelly, and pressed her fingers to it once more. Already, the skin was raised and slightly twisted, accommodating for the injury. She could faintly feel his pulse beneath his skin, slow and infuriatingly steady.

“It doesn't hurt,” he promised. His voice was so reassuring that she could feel it in her bones, and she was half-convinced he was secretly a child of Aphrodite, blessed with charmspeak. “I’m okay because of you.”

Her throat was achy. “And Beckendorf.”

He gave a small laugh. “And Beckendorf. But mainly you. You’ve given me strength.”

It was then that the world itself seemed to stop. He was leaning upwards, bringing her face close to his, and his lips brushed hers so softly that she feared she may have been dreaming the entire encounter.

She could taste the faint remnants of metallic blood, though it was easily brushed aside. Luke’s lips were slightly wind-chapped but she found herself uncaring when they slotted perfectly against hers.

This kiss was something she had been waiting years for, and it was better than she could have ever dreamed. The feeling of his hands on her, his lips against hers, it was something that could not be replicated in a dream, like flying for the first time and feeling the clouds beneath your fingers.

It was addictive, more so than the stupid apples that had caused Luke such pain, and she found herself wanting more. It was an effort to pull away from him, but eventually, she did. Beckendorf was only a few feet away and she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It would make for an awkward journey home.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Luke murmured.

Finally, there was a smile tugging on her lips again. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting.”

It took another hour or so before Luke was well enough to get moving. The dark trails gave all of them a bad feeling, and (y/n) wasn’t able to shake the almost hypnotic choral voices of the Hesperides until they were out of the State Park. Luke was shaky on his feet for a little while but his strength was returning.

And with it came anger.

Not anger at (y/n) or Beckendorf, no. He still smiled at them as usual, fingers entwined with (y/n)’s so tightly it was as though he was afraid she would slip away. Jokes still slipped past his lips despite the events of the evening.

But he was filled with fiery rage. It was hidden, but (y/n) could read him like a book. She had seen the inklings of it throughout the previous days of their quest, had seen it more clearly while she was cleaning the blood from his face - this anger, though, was pure. Harder to mask.

He had already been furious with his quest, a detail he had tried to keep hidden from her. He hated the idea of repeating history and the fact that this quest was simply made to satiate him, to prevent him from growing restless at camp and questioning the authority of the gods.

This was a breaking point.

It became clearer the more time passed. As the days and weeks went by, he would hold her hand like a lifeline and kiss her so softly it felt as though she was dreaming, but the anger never left. It ate away at him, dimming his smiles and reducing any respect he had left for the gods until there was nothing left but a shadow of what had once been there.

The scar never faded. It became a reminder of what he believed to be the gods’ failure. His failure.

He was still her Luke. The Luke she had known and loved since she was thirteen. She was just terrified of what he might become.

[silver-inked-quill]

The Last Hours of a Herondale

Ch.1 Better Angels

Pair: Matthew Fairchild x reader

Words: 2k

Summary: James' twin sister, just like him and Lucie has an unexplained ability, she sees visions of the past and the future occasionally when she touches an object or a person. What happens though, when she sees herself dying?

Warning: maybe blood?

I was surveying the demon battle; I didn’t ponder much as my twin brother and his Parabatai danced with the demon. I was sitting ready to intervene in case it was necessary, I had a bad feelings and unfortunately my gut was usually not mistaken.

James disappeared once again, it used to happen a lot more than that, and it would keep happening to him. The moment he was out of sight I jumped down from the rooftop I was observing. Before I landed I heard Matt’s scream, I immediately took out my whip slapping it in the air as the electricity. I didn’t know if my brother was back and I couldn’t care less about the usual catchphrase Matt would mock me with before running into a battle “Sit back and watch how it’s done”. He is my brother’s Parabatai, namely, the same as James. I was holding Matthew’s stele at the ceremony.

“Dodge” I exclaimed as I had the demon still for some moments, I took out a dagger and threw it at the demon. Matt followed my instruction without further notice.

My plan though didn’t work out for long as the demon escaped the tie of my whip letting me fall backwards.

“Y/N/N!” Matt exclaimed and turned at me, he was actually worried.

“I won’t break Matt, where did the demon go?” I asked and stood up and stepped forward as I activated the voyance rune upon my wrist.

“Lurked back into the shadows” he spoke up confidently. Matt paced further in the dark alley and the demon hissed loudly and gripped his shoulders tightly. He screamed as the demon managed to dug its nails to his shoulders, its mouth opened up in four and he hissed to his face as I leaped on its back and stabbed it with a seraph blade but before its blade could dug through its skull its head turned 180 degrees, its stinky breath straight to my face.

Moments flashed and I saw my brother be back. Deumas roared again and pressured the blade to its chest yelling the angels name, but once he threw Matt off of him and then its attention turned to me, James was already there, he swung his arm back pulling my seraph sword out as I fell on my back in the shadows.  James looked like he was losing it.

“James!” I yelled, unaware if he heard me, the demon slapped him as he seemed to disorientate. I groaned in pressure as I prevented another hit to my brother with my daggers. Suddenly the demon was swept off his feet, three chords wrapped around its legs pulling it backwards. It was Thomas standing behind us with his bolas. Thomas was tall and had a massive physique.

“I am alright” my brother assured me and I dodged to the side retrieving my weapon and returning it on my belt. I let my whip loose again and trapped its upper body as Thomas was still holding it in place. With the corner of my eye I noticed Christopher helping Matt, before I returned to the demon that soon burst out in an explosion of ichor and demon blood that showered me and everyone else but my brother.

“Matthew, Y/N-.” My brother begun and as I was wiping the slime from my cloths.

“How- Wha-?” Christopher shuttered and I raised an eyebrow.

“Do you mean how we tracked down the last demon in London?” James asked as he carefully offered me a napkin. “Or that it is also the most disgusting thing?” I was surprised on how calm and normal his voice sounded. I knew he was innerly shaking.

“Or that James managed to make us a mess and yet stay out of it.” I commented to lighten the atmosphere as I wiped the last bit of ichor from under my chin there was a small burn mark from it there. He was the only one untouched.

I saw Thomas roll his eyes in annoyance as he was covered in ichor as Matthew sputtered the seraph blade that defused. “This is an outrage” he commented tossing the weapon aside. “Do you know how much I spent on this waistcoat?” he asked with annoyance and complaint.

“Plus no one told you to go demon hunting dressed like an extra from the Importance of being Earnest” James pointed out, he handed another napkin to his parabatai as well. He was standing between us.

Thomas spoke commenting on Matt as well. Therefore I didn’t hear him. “James, your hand…” I noticed a gash across his palm, I took out my stele and touched his at hand. He removed himself from his grip looking at me for any sign of seizure but I pointed at my gloves and smiled as I drew an iratze. It was usually Matt’s work, but it was only a gash.

Us twins had our very own gift as our parents call it trying to convince us it is not a curse,  though nor me neither my brother feel it like a gift, it is an uncontrolled ability we have, that activates randomly. James changes dimensions, he comes back though, his episodes do not last this long and there is nothing we can usually do as he physically disappears. I on the other hand, see visions, usually unclear and enigmatic concerning the object or the person I came in contact with. While I see those dreams, I am falling into a sort of seizure. This happens since I am ten, my uncle Jem though, gifted me a pair of enchanted gloves to wear and I have to admit that it has been helpful.

“Thomas! Stop scrubbing at me” Christopher said, windmilling his arms. “We should go back to the Devil and get cleaned there.”

“I agree, its starting to get chilly.” I spoke and secured my stele inside my pocket. Matt looked at me and removed his fancy waist coat and placed it around my shoulders gently.

“Care to tell me how much you spent on it?” I asked in a mocking way as everyone started walking to the Devil’s Tavern.

“Its useless now either way” Matt replied as I wrapped it better around me while we were walking there. I rarely went to the Devil, it was a hide out, a safe spot for my brother and his friends. I knew it wasn’t true but I felt as I intruded… Maybe because this is how I felt when someone invaded my atelier or music room.

“I almost didn’t recognize the lot of you when you tramped in here covered in whatever you call it…” The waitress commented and I looked at her, Polly I think it was her name. There were welcome exclamations galore, the boys were really loved around here, fairly though.

“Its been ages since we have seen a demon in London” said James

“I reckon they are all too scared to show their faces…” Polly spoke.

“Scared?” James asked confused. The rest of the boys were spread across the Tavern, Christopher and Thomas went to eat and drink some water, while I saw Matt bottoming up a whole glass of a brownish liquid which was one hundred per cent alcohol. 

“Scared of what?” I wondered and her gaze fell upon me. She wrinkled her nose, a werewolf she is, she probably smelled ichor, blood and sandalwood upon me.

“And what a beauty like you is doing in such dirty shit hole.” She spoke, obviously avoiding my question.

“You have seen me before…” I commented puzzled at the reaction of the wolf. She extended her hand and gripped my chin lightly and turned my head to the side. I felt my breath be caught upon my chest, intention was good as she dragged her finger behind my ear taking a drop of ichor.

Within seconds James gripped Polly’s wrist and threw it away from me. I turned to my twin, I knew he was there but I was not there, I could see a girl, Polly, go down an alley, she was so carefree and happy until the person next to her suddenly started to change. She would scream and shout for help but the eldest werewolf didn’t seem to be phased, he simply bit her. I squeezed my eyes, I couldn’t watch and therefore there she was, young Polly, her expression twisted in pain and agony from the lycanthropy infection. I opened my eyes again and I could see, or more like sense my brother, he was calm, it was a usual thing for me. I would be alright in about five minutes. I let out a soft cry I was surveying Polly turn into a werewolf for the first time. It felt like forever until I shot up.

I looked around, I found myself into the attic of the Merry Thieves, it was a small space with one bedroom. I was laying on the bed while I still had Matthew’s coat as a blanket over me. I took my time to make myself obvious and I caught an interesting conversation about ‘Grace’

“Her name is Grace” said James, a hint of annoyance upon his voice. I could smell the gin on him as he was sitting on the bed next to me.

“Exactly, Grace” Agreed Thomas “Aunt Tatiana’s always kept them both in splendid isolation in Idris- no visitors at all- but apparently she’s decided to move back to London, so my parents are all in a dither about it” he explained and this unlocked so many memories of our childhood times in Idris where James would secretly go to meet Grace. I did not like her that much as I got along better with Barbara Lightwood, Thomas’ eldest sister.

“Grace? To London?” James asked in complete disorientation.

“Seems Tatiana wants to bring her out in society” Thomas looked puzzled at my brother’s reaction. “I suppose you’ve met her in Idris? Your house is next to the Blackthorn manor, isn’t it?” It was true, We used to meet her every Summer.

There were moments of silence as there was no one responding so it was the time to make the fact that I returned to reality known. “And where will she stay?” I asked the thing my twin wouldn’t dare and I felt his relief wash over his figure as he turned at me.

“Hello there” James smiled at me and patted my knee as I was curled in a ball under Matt’s coat.

“Are you feeling alright? You seemed to doze off at Polly’s charms” Math’s voice sounded smooth and sweet as he joked with me.

“I will live, apparently” I smiled lightly as I felt uncomfortable to speak about Polly. “Too bad for your coat, you won’t have it back today.” I added and curled in a ball under it. It had his smell.

“No worries, it was disposable after James’ smart move” Matthew replied with a charming smile and he patted my head gently.

“Awee how sweet of you” spoke up with a sigh. I felt lightheaded as I sat up, making an effort to balance my head. James held my shoulders not attempting to touch me again, afraid that there would be another episode.

“Your hand…” I noticed as it seemed that my iratze didn’t work as needed.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Matthew asked and his slim but muscular hand slipped out his stele. I could see his veins as he was preparing his stele.

Thomas approached me with a toast and I chuckled lightly as he offered it to me. “You something bad for Polly, didn’t you?” he asked me. Math and Jame were further but I could notice that they were listening to me.

“I did, but I am actually used to seeing bad things” I explained and certainly did not deny the fact that I was hungry too much. “This is pretty good” I smiled at my cousin as he poured some water in a glass.

“I don’t mean to be the first one to leave a party” announced I, so as to get their attention “however I shall be making my way to the institute.” I spoke up and James seemed to dislike the idea.

“Perhaps you should stay for a bit and then we can return together.” My brother remarked and looked at me. I was trying to understand was it he was fearing fathers wrath or he was extremely worried about me.

“No, I’d rather not” I smiled at him “Do not concern yourself James. I will be completely fine. I promise.” I sat up taking my time to stand up from the old wooden bed of the attic. Thomas was right next to me, I am certain he was pondering where to support me if needed without jeopardizing to have another episode.

“How exactly do you expect me to do that, when you just had an episode” he remarked as he approached me once Math was done drawing an iratze rune upon his skin

“And you had an episode of your own as well and with us not knowing what was the cause of it. At least with me you saw it coming.” I spoke with my voice raising by the note. I was so disturbed by the fact that he considered the incident with me so much more important  than his even though it was considered during battle.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed.

“James!” I yelled back almost immediately, it was a reflect that took over and I could not control. I knew that I was supposed to be the delicate girl amongst the boys that were mostly friends of my brother. Nevertheless I could not stand the unfairness of the matter. I was the girl he was the boy we were in the same danger and our troubled moments were just as random and I could not fathom the fact he was being the same phallocratic male like the ones were asking for my hand were.

I started walking to the exit of the attic and Matthew got my elbow. I tried to conserve my gaze therefore I just couldn’t help and stare at him, deadly. “I am going home on my own! I am pretty capable of doing so and I do not need anyone to protect me or my honor. In case it wasn’t noticed I saved Math twice just some hours earlier when you had one hell of a random disappearance to God knows where. Perhaps papa would be interested in a more detailed version of tonight’s success.” I stated, my angry gaze met James’ who’s blood I could feel boiling.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He growled, his teeth greeted and his jaw clenched, his outfit was still well-stood unlike mine. I looked like I was in a battle indeed, my hair tucked in a messy bun with all the braids rogue and my clothes filled with stains and scratches.

“Well, I thought you wouldn’t dare to imply that I wouldn’t make it home alone… And yet here we stand.” I spoke up and threw the coat at Matthew who caught it.

“No keep it, I will come until some point, I need some quality bourbon not this, whatever it is.” Matthew spoke and walked out.

“Whatever” I shrugged my shoulders and walked out of the attic. I knew this would calm down James, just as I knew Matthew would trust me, even though he looks like he doesn’t care at all about me or anyone for that matter…

[falloftheusurperau]

Arc 1: Escape from Fleecy Fields

Prologue

A quick look into Narinder's thoughts as the bishops are brought to the cult, memories erased and reduced to the same miserable state as him. Meanwhile, the lamb has a great surprise for him...

When Leshy arrived in the village, it was with a great cacophony. He materialized through the designated sigil meant for the yet-to-be-indoctrinated, but rather than cowering on his knees he began screaming the moment he arrived in full. Screeching in a visceral, jagged way from deep in his throat, now-stubby little fingers clawing at his face.

Seemed his pain tolerance was significantly lower as a mortal. One of the unfortunate consequences of being torn from godhood. Part of Narinder feels smug, watching the slimy wretch that used to be his brother writhe in pain. His bandages are quickly soaking through with red blood and black ichor alike, beginning to well up and trickle down his chin and neck.

“MY EYE-E-ES!” he had wailed loud enough to shatter glass and draw more than a dozen curious, frightened stares. “My- My eyes!” he scrubbed fruitlessly at the bandages wound tight around his face. “I can’t see…! My crown, where is- where am I- my eyes!”

His helpless pawing at his face only tapers off when he begins to sob, and Narinder turns away. He’d seen Leshy cry enough to know it would become a messy affair, and he had no desire to bear witness or to listen to his demonic shrieking.

It felt weird for Narinder to see his brother again. It's been a very long time since he had contact with any of his siblings. He didn't know how his brother felt towards him. Probably hatred. Maybe some sort of disgust? He can't help but remember the old times when Leshy threw a tantrum because a follower stepped on a bunch of his special flowers. Kinda nostalgic.

The sudden bout of unwanted, ancient memories makes him sneer, and he pushes the thoughts from his head. He had no brothers or sisters or siblings to speak of.

He doesn’t see Leshy again for several days. Word travels swiftly through the grapevine and apparently, he had tried to go for the lamb’s throat. They hadn’t mentioned it to him, though, so that could hardly be counted as fact. For better or worse, the little woolen wretch told him everything.

A tiny one-room cottage at the edge of the southern fields, that’s where the lamb put Leshy. Assigning him to tend the fields was smart, even he could admit–mortal now though he may be, the bagworm had a way with plants. The greenest thumb anyone could ever bear witness to, and nothing was immune to it: fruits, vegetables, flowers, brambles, shrubs, it didn’t matter. If it had leaves, Leshy was good at it.

Things were oddly very quiet in the aftermath. There wasn’t so much as a sprinkle of resistance after those first few days. Pretty soon, Leshy was everywhere, it seemed–he attended the daily morning sermon like everybody else, he happily stood in line at the kitchens for his meals, and he had a grand time mucking about in the soil watering seeds and pulling weeds. Narinder had seen him damn near skipping at one point, arms swinging merrily with his completely rhetorical straw sunhat on. His aura was carefree, airy, almost sunny.

“...don’t you find it strange?”

“Nope!” the lamb is cheerful as ever, popping the ‘p’ and giving him a lopsided grin. “Without his crown he’s harmless, and without his heart-”

Ah. Right. His immortal heart.

“You mean…?”

The lamb nods. “He doesn’t remember.”

Oh. Well. He honestly wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

For a moment Narinder pondered what, perhaps, life would be like for him, if he had forgotten… would he jump in the fields, pray like the most devoted follower or maybe consecrate resources like nobody else could? Would he sport blank eyes and a wide devoted smile?

Ugh. No, even in the grips of amnesia he would never smile. How could he? This would be misery with or without his memories.

“...hey,” the lamb’s hand gently comes down on his shoulder and they give him their gentlest smile. “He’s ok, you know? He’s safe, he’s happy. This is better for him.”

Narinder sighs and rolls his eyes, turning his gaze from theirs.

“...Nari,” the lamb moves in front of him, this time grabbing his hands. He holds eye contact diligently, but keeps his face neutral. “I… know this is probably really hard for you. But he was suffering, they’re all suffering. I’m…” they blink and their shoulders slump ever-so-slightly. “I’m sorry, that he doesn’t remember you. But, maybe now you can try-”

“NO!” he yanks back from them and folds his arms. “I want nothing to do with them! They can rot!”

And that’s the end of their conversation. The lamb presses a soft, gentle kiss to his cheek and goes on their way, and Narinder watches them go, chest burning with hatred. The Red Crown had never had quite such an unworthy bearer before.

Narinder sighs. It was more of a grunt than a sigh; looking at his brother's happy demeanor disgusts him. He turns and goes back to his hut, laying on that pile of hay the lamb calls a bed. He stares at the ceiling for a solid minute or two before closing his eyes.

When Heket arrives it’s with much less fanfare than Leshy, though a great part of that is because she can’t speak. Without her crown the utter lack of vocal chords has rendered her almost entirely mute. She’s in a terrible state, emaciated and starving, skin stretched tight over her ribs and jaw, limbs gone wiry, cheeks gaunt and eyes sunken. Her lips are cracked and bloody, and she can barely stand. Starvation had hit her hard and fast, and Narinder secretly smirks in the background. Served her right.

She, too, tried to attack the lamb, but despite her severely weakened state she was still just as fast and vicious as he remembered: no sooner had she arrived had she lunged at the lamb and sunk her teeth into their neck. Blood sprayed violently from the wound as she ripped them apart, ravenous in her appetite and in her hatred for them. They collapse backwards, light already vanished from their eyes as the most loyal and brave amongst the cultists lunge to separate the two of them. Even in her starving state it takes 3 people to hold her back; she only stops struggling when a familiar voice starts shouting over the crowd.

“Let me through, l-lemme through!” and Leshy emerges, elbowing people out of his way, hands outstretched and patting at the air as he struggled to navigate. Usually his hearing was his greatest aid, but with all the screaming that ability was severely dampened.

“Heket?!” he calls, spinning blindly in a circle as his hands search desperately for her. “Heket, Hex, is that you?! I- I smell you, where are you?!”

“...eh’shee…!” is the tiny, pathetic noise that manages to squeak out of her heavily damaged throat, and she forcefully shrugs off those trying to keep her in place, driving her elbow into Treon’s abdomen at the same moment she brings the heel of her foot down harshly on Juju’s toes with a sickening ‘crack!’ of shattering bones. Freed of their clutches, Narinder watches her rush over to Leshy: as soon as she touches him, the younger of the two throws his arms around her and starts bouncing in place. Her stick-thin arms return the hug, and tears start sliding down her face.

“...s- still-” she coughs, a harsh, wet noise, and fresh blood stains the bandages at her neck. “...alive…!”

“Yeah! Y- Yeah, I am-!” Leshy’s a blubbering mess, clinging to her arm and nuzzling his face into her shoulder. “And- And so’re you! I can’t believe you’re here, Hex! I missed you sooo much, and I-” he pauses very suddenly, lifting his face til they’re nearly nose-to-nose. “Why do you smell like blood?”

“Great question, Leshy!” the lamb is back on their (feet once more, hands clasped before them and a tight smile curled over their face. Their voice us grating with displeasure, as they continue, “Your sister must be starving. Why don’t you take her to the kitchens for a nice meal?”

“Ok!” Leshy salutes playfully and then immediately starts dragging a thoroughly-flabbergasted Heket away.

It was the same for her as it was with Leshy: within 3 days time her immortal memories had faded to obscurity and she started living life like every other unremarkable mortal here. She took to sign language at lightning speed, and joined Leshy in field work on only her second morning. She moved into the same house as him: Leshy’s personal request, apparently, and the lamb thought it was just darling that he wanted to share living quarters with his big sister. She was a lot less chipper than him–even before she lost her voice, she’d always been a very surly, serious individual–but was entirely amicable to the goings-on of life in the cult. Leshy had volunteered wholeheartedly to care for her, pestering her to always eat seconds at mealtimes and making sure she didn’t overdo it while she was in recovery. Being in such a state of emaciation was dangerous and he was determined to make sure she was back to full health as quickly as possible.

The two of them became a pair, rarely seen without the other: Leshy was always hanging off of her arm, letting her guide him around, while he talked her ear off. She’d always nod and grunt in response, not able to do much else, but Narinder suspected that Leshy understood everything she meant even without words. They’d always been close like that.

Kallamar’s arrival is the funniest. No sooner has he been yanked through the portal is he stumbling backwards, arms raised as if to shield his face and begging for mercy, “No no no no no, please no, no, s-stay away, stay back-!”

The lamb follows him, hands raised as if for peace, trying to soothe him. “It’s alright, Kallamar, I’m not going to-”

The squid promptly turns the color of guacamole and projectile vomits all over both of them. The lamb bleats in surprise and leaps backwards, and Narinder slaps one hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Kallamar is still dry heaving, wiping his mouth and looking on in horror when his color undergoes another drastic change: all the blood drains out of his face, turning his cheeks ashen, and he’s barely mumbled out a half-slurred, “I don’... feel’so…!” before dropping like a sack of flour, slumping into the dirt, wholly unconscious.

Narinder observes silently as someone is sent to fetch Heket and Leshy: the two of them come running and flock to Kallamar’s side at once; Heket checks his pulse like she’s been doing it forever, and Leshy presses their foreheads together to gauge his temperature. The lamb agrees to let them take him away to rest; the indoctrination can come later, once they’d had a bath and Kallamar is awake.

Unlike the other two, Kallamar’s presence never becomes a constant. Their cottage is once again upgraded and they’re given two more beds–no doubt in his mind who the fourth one is for–and Kallamar rarely leaves his. According to Leshy’s ramblings, Kallamar has quote, “Always been really frail and sickly, you know? Ever since we were little.”. Had the loss of their immortal memories been complemented by the implanting of new, false ones? Because that wasn’t true in the slightest. The few times Narinder had walked past their cozy little house though, there was always some sort of miserable sound of the ill and abed coming from it. Coughing fits from full lungs and desperate sneezing and the horrible sickening sound of gagging, all courtesy of one very unhealthy squid. It was rare to see him more than thrice a month, it was so bad. Narinder theorized that, as the god of pestilence, his body had been a natural breeding ground for disease, hosting a countless slew of potent bacteria and viruses so he was always ready to inflict it on the heretical. But now, his power over plague was gone, but the ailments themselves hadn’t been purged from his system.

Leshy and Heket became a less common sight as well, taking turns tending their sick brother. The healing bay was out of the question: though the lamb could use their magic and camellias to cure him, he was always set upon by another disease in less than half a day. It was a waste of their medicinal stores and his siblings were protective, insisting point blank that they could take care of Kallamar and needn’t bother anyone else with it. The squid attended less than half the daily sermons and, though he was qualified as a doctor, never saw any patients because he was always so unwell and contagious.

The first winter since the trio joined them, their presences plummet to an all time low. The cold weather and, more importantly, the wet, freezing snow ensures the oldest of the three is battling with raging fevers and bronchitis for the entire season. Leshy and Heket start becoming more and more scarce, and no one is surprised when they’re both reported sick. Honestly, the only surprising part is that it took a winter storm to knock the three of them down, considering they lived with Kallamar. They recovered just as most everyone else did in time, and were always back to work within a week. Heket got significantly slower and lethargic during the cold season; more than once Narinder had seen her nodding off in the middle of a task. She’d never hibernated through winter before and so was stubbornly refusing her body’s call. It was no wonder she got sick more often than Leshy did that winter–5 times to his 2.

Narinder wondered just when the lamb was planning to retrieve Shamura. The winter came and went, making way for the warmth of spring as life was breathed back into the Fleecy Fields, blades of grass and shy tree leaves peaking their heads out once more, slowly turning the land green and lush once more. Leshy and Heket returned to the fields as soon as they were able to, sowing the first seeds of spring the day the frost fully melted and left the soil soft and tillable once more. Kallamar stayed inside, and though the warm weather did help finally chase away the infections in his lungs, he was miserably allergic to just about everything coming back to life with the fresh season, and was still laid up in bed with spring colds and flus and sinus infections.

Narinder would have felt bad for him, but it honestly just made a curl of satisfaction coil into his belly. Even without his memories, at least someone else was suffering in this hell with him.

Spring turned to summer, the air became sticky and heavy with moisture before the lamb brought Shamura to them.

Shamura was in a state all their own: they didn’t speak or flinch or react in the slightest when they were dragged through the portal. Narinder hardly recognized them, whereas before they had been tall and willowy and graceful, now they were short and round and nubby. They were clumsy, always stumbling, always looking lost. Shamura wandered off somewhere they weren’t supposed to be as a daily occurrence in their first several weeks of living in the Fields with the cult. They were always confused, and the lamb said it was the brain damage. Narinder could believe it; even as a god having such a drastic injury had taken a toll on them, but as a mortal they hardly seemed like a person anymore. So forgetful, so absent minded, so… listless. What was it the mortals called it? Demented? Demential? Something like that. Shamura seemed to embody it to perfection.

The lamb decided that Shamura was best put to use on their knees in reverent prayer and worship, so every morning Heket or Leshy would drop them off at the shrine and they’d stay there for most of the day, free of disturbances and constantly producing a steady stream of devotion for the lamb to feed their crown. It was much better than them getting distracted in the fields and wandering into the woods, at any rate.

Only when Shamura has settled in amongst them and summer is at it’s peak does the dreaded question come.

“Will you marry me?”

Narinder has never fostered such hatred for anyone before, not even his thrice-damned siblings. The lamb had pulled him away from prying eyes and they’d sat for a picnic together: he tucked the wretched beast under one arm and pressed a meaningless kiss to the top of their head. He’d even accepted a spoonful of food from them when they offered to feed it to him. They watched the sunset together, wrapped in each other’s arms and embracing like the lovers the lamb thought they were.

Then, when the zenith of the sun had dipped below the horizon, the lamb had stood up. Grabbed his hands and folded gracefully to their knees. Peering up at Narinder with round eyes full of hope and boundless love, they’d asked, breathlessly: “Will you marry me?”

Narinder covers his mouth with one hand. He’d prepared for this. His eyes moisten on command and he stares them down for several tense seconds like he can’t quite believe it.

“...what?!” his voice comes out choked up. Wet. Perfect.

“I said, will you marry me?” the lamb repeats it. They squeeze his hands and draw in a tense breath, betraying their nerves. “Narinder… it’s been three long years, and… I want to spend the rest of my immortal life with you. There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side, so I ask you again: will you marry me?”

His stomach twists into knots and his heart plummets. Disgust wells on his tongue but he swallows down the venomous words he wants to spit.

“I-” he sniffles. “I…!”

“Oh my gods,” the lamb blinks at him. “Nari, are- are you cryi-”

“NO!” he shoves them away and turns his back, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Sh- Shut up!”

“Those are, uh, happy tears, right…?” he hears the lamb rise to stand. “Hey, Narinder, th- that’s a yes, right?”

“Of course it’s a yes, you fool!” he whirls around to trap them in his arms. He kisses them, long and deep, and his skin crawls. How mortals could enjoy this wet, slimy sensation he would never understand. 

Narinder wasn't surprised when he found out the lamb had already planned the majority of the ceremony behind his back. No sooner have they returned from their romantic getaway are they swarmed by eager followers, reporting that the feast will be ready by morning, that they've finished decorating the pews and the ceremonial garments are ready to go, they just need to do a last minute fitting with Narinder to ensure that the hems are the perfect length. He's dragged off by the clothier, an old pangolin called Merga, and a solid, cold dread like a block of lead drops into his stomach.

The wedding is tomorrow.

[nami-tblr]

Hollis Herron/Felix Jones- First meeting.

-first time writing kinda!! or at least posting a writing ehe.. anyways please offer criticism and enjoy!!

Injured and stumbling, Hollis had invited himself into the hotel which Felix resided as a stranger, the receptionist. Blood seeped from his shoulder down his knuckles, a tight grasp on the gash sustained on his arm.

“Excuse me..- hhK—.. r-room please.. how much..” choked out he, seething and clearly struggling to breathe.

Felix had his eye on the intriguing scene the whole time, only frozen with concern and panic as the person of his interest actually spoke to him. “S-sir-.. Do you need medical attention..? We have the finest doctors and-..”

“Room. Please..-“ With difficulty a fat band of cash enough to pay for 3 rooms was slammed onto the desk.

“Yes.. Follow me.” As a well paid employee it was only in his bets interest to let rich people do as the rich do.. though he did feel the need to help. He lead the injured man to a room nearest the top floor, opening the door for him and bowing. “Welcome. Number 402..”

He tripped into the room with his ichor staining all of his clothes, his destination being the clean burgundy couch. said couch was now stained a deeper shade of rose.

Fenix hadn’t much choice but to stare with intrigue whilst he was rendered too worried to leave. “I didn’t catch your last name.. What was it sir?” Due to policy he couldn’t refuse a paying customer but the rule didn’t make sense to him.

“Herron..” His head had rolled back and relaxed onto the couch as much as it could as he took in his surroundings, everything seeming to dim in and out. “..Medical-..attention.. T-This building has it..?” Weak, he’d looked to the red head in search of some truth to the advertising he’d done earlier.

The shorter of the two perked up, he began to step out of the room. “Yes! I’ll get you some swiftly-“

“Is it- ah.. discrete..?-“ The pain had began to numb by now, yet it was becoming increasingly difficult to appear conscious.

“Discrete..? Sir if I may be so bold you need attention immediately.. but I can request an alias.” Fenix argued, rolling his eyes.

“Just-.. j-just Dan..” Silence followed, and his eyes no longer opened.

—

Hollis didn’t remember what led him to waking up with a red head beside him, the gauze on his arm and chest, and inside of a medical room. He did remember however that his head was no longer as painful as it’d been moments before he blacked out, nor was his body, it was all numb.

Felix hummed a small tune whilst playing with a wrap of gauze and sitting on the edge of the strangers bed.

“Hello.” Began the stranger, sitting up now.

He turned around quickly, putting the medical wrap down and standing up. “Sir.. Are you feeling better?”

“What happened to me?”

“Uh.. As far as we’re aware you sustained several minor injuries to your arm, your side, and your ribs.. but the doctors were able to fix you up quite nicely and prescribe you treatments- They even went as far as to offer breathing practices with experts.” It surprised him truly all the company’d do to keep a customer, but it was nice knowing that anyone who lived here was safe. At least anyone who didn’t work there as a mere receptionist.

“I understand.” He took a moment more to process his situation and recognized that he was in danger. “..And you used the alias correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good..” He sighed, leaning back in the blinding white sheets.

“Your clothes are also being cleaned thoroughly, everything should be prepared and well before the night is over. As well as your injuries.” He spoke proudly considering it was very late into the night, they weren’t even supposed to have taken in anymore clients yet they couldn’t turn the bloody man away. Fenix swallowed hard, nervous when the thoughts he’d been having fled back to his mind. With all the gore and secrecy, had this person been someone dangerous? Affiliated with maybe? It truly looked like no accident.. but it wasn’t his job to ask.

“If you’d be so kind, please escort me back to my room.”

“I apologize sir but i can’t ignore the doctor’s orders for you to be in this bed tonight, it’s for your health.” ‘and my job..’, thought he.

“That won’t do. Inform your doctor that I’ll be in my room, thank you.” With that he stood, letting the drapes of cloth fall to his mid leg. “…” Disregarding that, slow steps were taken before he reached the door and opened it with some childlike determination.

The fear of losing his job made Fenix rush to go stop him. “Excuse me- please.. ah.. If you’re going to leave, I will escort you then, is that okay?”

“Quite.“ He stood out of the way and let him lead.

Suddenly disheartened he shrank yet did as he offered, keeping his eye on the unstable man. “S-Sir.. did you even know where you were going..”

“..no.”

Both had muttered to each other under their breaths now, one of disbelief and the other of mindless pride broken by admitting to a crime.

Despite that, what was most important was that Hollis had been escorted successfully and safely.

“Are you going to hold my hand for the rest of the night? Hm?” Hummed he to the shorter who had followed him even into his own kitchen. Caught in the act of worry, Fenix took a step back. “Apologies sir I truly just.. Don’t feel comfortable knowing you’re injured and refuse treatment.”

“Ah.” Pouring a glass of white wine, he offered some to his new companion. “I wouldn’t mind having you stay.. yet I can’t have you. My line of work per-say is dangerous and I’d rather you didn’t get injured as well.” Hollis watched the windows and noticed the heavy curtains darkened by the absence of sunlight.

“This place is heavily guarded- I assure you there won’t be any break-ins or criminal activity if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not exactly. Please, stay in your room. You can have the glass.”

Fenix was rushed out in a matter of seconds, the warmth of his hands still on his back from when he’d pushed him out even minutes later. Their first meeting had come to an end.

Hollis held his chest along with his glass, frowning as his back slid down the door. He hadn’t meant to rope anyone else into this and that’s how it would stay, the cute receptionist would simply have to be that to him, even offering him a drink was a bad idea.

[inkedstone]

Answering Your ‘Au where your character finds an injured trueform iros and has to deal with this weird dog’? Because thats JUST Zivs luck. xD

Ziv had followed the scent like a sleuth- she was still a Healer despite her current position as a botanist and if she smelled something that resembled Adrenaline caused by pain, jumping into action was like an instinct. Accordingly she also promptly went into the role of a healer when reaching Iros, talking calmly to get his attention and slowly inching closer. “...So yeh, not gonna lie, I am pretty kriffing sure that you do not belong to the native fauna or flora of this planet. Not at kriffing all. Like,-” the Tynnan leaned her head back and sniffed in the air again, pulling in the scent that smelled more like burned stone and molten minerals than the smell of blood that she as someone specialised on healingherbs was used to since the first day of her training, years ago. The scent stitched into her nostrils like needles, something that made her whiskers and pelt bristle and automatically she started to rub a small paw over her colourless snout and flews, trying to get rid of the scent that even seemed to now burn on her tounge and down her throat. Something in the back of her mind, the small little animal that had yet not become a apex predetor or even sentient, the small little animal from which Tynnan had developed millenias ago, screamed at her to get away, to run, to bring as much distance between her and the (monster, the small animal in the back of her mind screamed) (danger, the small animal in the back of her mind cried) (death, the small animal in the back of her mind begged) ‘ other’ as fast as possible. Ziv, although knowing better, ignored it for now and carefully  walked even closer, sniffing again despite her disgust for the scent in the air for any kind of pheromones that could tell her about the others state or injuries: “- no kriffing offence there, but you definitive do not look like what I had been studying and documenting the last six kriffing months of my kriffing sorry life, full stop. On a completly different sidenote, though-” The Tynnans fluffy ears flicked up alerted,  listening attentive as she continued to talk and with that still walked closer carefully: “-do you even kriffing understand me or is just the isolation getting to me and I am talking to not sentient lifeforms again? I mean, its kriffing possible, not gonna kriffing lie, happned before and will happen kriffing again, lifes kriffing hard and all.” @irrfahrer

"What the fuck are you talking about." The creature speaks despite not having a clear mouth, though given the amount of black ichor covering the ground, it seems likely there's one in there somewhere. It's quite big too, probably seven feet from front to end. Six tendrils are waving wildly, hooked ends latching into anything they can.

Iros, meanwhile, is feeling like complete shit. Something is wrong, and he's not sure what precisely that could be. The amount of ichore he's vomited makes him wonder if it's something he ate, and if maybe there's something else wrong with him.

The moan he lets out is oddly...human. In fact, his voice sounds like a Regular Guy and not a creature that's currently pathetically trying to get on his feet.

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

[contemplativepancakes]

five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose. ~6k. Read on AO3 here!

i.

“Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. 

It’s been a long night, and Geralt would like nothing better than to collapse into bed, but trouble has a habit of following Jaskier like flies to shit. He’s the whole reason Geralt even has a bed for the night, so Geralt sighs and follows the shouting. 

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when he rounds a corner and Jaskier runs head first into him, but honestly, it’s nothing short of expected. What does throw Geralt for a loop, though, is the fact that Jaskier is completely naked, expanses of smooth skin exposed as he sprawls back on the ground in a very undignified manner, clutching his nose. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” he cries, but it comes out garbled. “You broke my nose!”

The man who was chasing after Jaskier comes to a sudden halt, panting in front of them. “He slept with my wife!”

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure it was him?”

The man gapes and gestures at Jaskier’s nakedness. Geralt curses Jaskier for being so obvious; it makes his job much more complicated. 

“Maybe he can give you some tips on how to satisfy her so she doesn’t feel the need to look elsewhere next time,” Geralt suggests, one hand coming up to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“It’s all about the tongue,” Jaskier pipes up in a nasally tone, and Geralt rolls his eyes. 

The man’s eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and back to Geralt before a look of realization crosses his face and it drains of color. “You’re… the butcher of Blaviken?”

“That’s him! So you’d best get back to your chambers if you want to keep all your limbs!” Jaskier crows, but only half of it is intelligible through the hand he’s holding to his nose. 

The man looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his lip and retreats, after one last withering glance at Jaskier. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Will you ever learn?” he asks in exasperation. “I’m not always going to be around to clean up your messes, you know.”

“I’m fairly certain you have a much longer life expectancy than me,” Jaskier lisps, looking up at Geralt with doe eyes. 

Geralt sighs and sticks out a hand to help Jaskier up. 

Jaskier takes it, his fingertips lingering on the soft flesh of Geralt’s forearm, and heaves himself up. His hand stays on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt drags him back to their room. 

“Sit,” he says gruffly, rustling around in his pack for a clean rag. 

He steps over to the wash basin and dips it in before walking back to over Jaskier. He wipes the blood away from Jaskier’s nose gently, but an observer wouldn’t think so from the way Jaskier winces and groans.  

Geralt sighs. “Serves you right.”

“That’s just cruel, Geralt.” Jaskier squirms on the bed, pulling a corner of the blanket over his lap. 

Geralt resolutely focuses on his face. He squints at Jaskier’s nose, which is just the slightest bit crooked. “This is going to hurt,” Geralt warns. “One, two.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt sets his nose back into its proper place, finishing up dabbing the blood away before he packs Jaskier’s nose full of gauze. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

There are tears welling in Jaskier’s eyes from the pain. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says weakly. 

“Maybe you’ll be able to go more than a week without cuckolding another husband this time.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant snort. “Hey, sometimes I just sleep with the husbands themselves. Then I have to watch what I eat, though,” he blathers on, and Geralt is honestly impressed with the lengths of his chatter even when Geralt imagines it must be painful to speak. “Have sex with one wrong person, and all of a sudden everyone and their mother is trying to poison you.”

Geralt’s not sure how to respond. 

Jaskier sighs and turns over in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Try not to drown in your own blood.”

“Always nice to know you care.”

And then, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear, “Good night, Jask.”

ii.

Geralt jerks awake and sits up in his bed roll. The fire is crackling happily, a far cry from the smoldering logs Geralt would have expected. He looks around, and Jaskier is gone. Normally, this would worry him, but if Jaskier took the time to stoke their fire, that probably means he hasn’t been eaten. Most likely. 

The slight chance that something untoward has happened propels Geralt out of the warmth of his blankets. He tugs on his boots and follows the faint scent of Jaskier, a warm mix of wood smoke and contentedness, these days. 

His nose leads him to the river bank, and he hovers right on the edge of the tree line, scouting for any possible dangers. He doesn’t see any, but as he does his sweep, his gaze catches on Jaskier’s bare back and lingers there. There’s a smattering of freckles that Geralt can just barely make out, until they disappear when Jaskier dunks his hair under the water. 

Geralt knows that he should stop just standing here, should either reveal himself or just slink back to their camp and start packing things up, but he finds himself rooted in place as Jaskier rubs a rag over his shoulder blades. 

Geralt is half tempted to offer his help in reaching Jaskier’s back, but he knows how that would probably be received. 

Geralt is transfixed as Jaskier begins to sing, and he sinks down to sit with his back to a tree to listen. Jaskier is always wanting his opinion on his songs, so surely he’d be fine with this, right?

It's not fair, oh, it's not fair how much I love you

It's not fair, 'cause you make me ache, you bastard

And he'll say

Oh, how, oh, how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I'll spend my days so close to you

'Cause if I'm stood here, then I'm stood here

And I'll stand—

Geralt’s jerked out of his trance of listening to Jaskier sing in his honeyed tones by a disturbance in the water, and Geralt focuses in on the ripples that are starting to froth before a drowner emerges, its scaly skin glistening in the morning light. Jaskier screams, and Geralt leaps from his hiding spot, unsheathing his sword. 

Jaskier turns to look at the new disturbance with wide eyes, minutely relaxing when he sees it’s Geralt. Geralt jumps into the water, landing on the drowner’s back. It jerks and bucks, deceptively strong as it tries to toss Geralt off. Geralt hooks his hands around its neck, his sword gripped precariously. 

The drowner gives one last shake, and Geralt goes flying, his sword falling with a splash. There’s a clawed, webbed hand on Geralt’s head, forcing him under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but to no avail. Geralt keeps his mouth tightly shut, and his lungs start to burn as he continues to fight. 

Bright spots start to dance at the edge of his vision, getting darker and fuzzier now, and Geralt knows he’s right on the verge of losing consciousness. He’s unable to stop his gasp for air, but only water finds his lungs. He’s resigned himself to this being the way it ends when suddenly the grip goes lax and he’s able to propel himself to the water’s surface, gasping for breath. 

“Geralt? Geralt?” comes a worried voice, floaty and distant sounding. “Geralt, are you okay?”

There’s a pounding on his back, and water dribbles from his lips. A litany of curses follow and sharp tugs on his arm that lead him back to the bank. 

Geralt coughs and splutters, more water escaping him as he finally registers Jaskier pacing around anxiously... completely naked. Geralt chokes, and Jaskier is there in an instant, a warm hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You’re okay,” he croons with a gentle pat. 

Geralt doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he about died and is seconds away from doing it again via spontaneous combustion at the sight of all Jaskier’s skin on display. Geralt picks a spot on the distance and fixes his gaze on it. 

“Good thing you were around,” Jaskier says finally, and Geralt burns in shame at the thought of why exactly he was there. 

He’s lucky Jaskier isn’t running away in repulsion, like he would be if he knew the truth. 

Jaskier asks him if he’s okay yet again, and Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, goody, you’re well enough for monosyllabic conversation. Back to normal, then.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier laughs, a delightful trilling thing. 

“Oh, here you go,” Jaskier says, handing Geralt back his sword that’s covered in monster guts and ichor. 

Geralt’s eyes do not bug out as the realization hits him. “You… you?”

“Well, it was drowning you! I couldn’t just stand around, now could I?”

“I...suppose not,” Geralt mutters, but in actuality, he can count on one hand the number of times someone’s actually come to his aid while he was fighting a monster. The most he can wish for is someone who won’t recoil as they patch up his wounds later. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting a bit,” Jaskier pauses, “distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. 

“Well, I guess it’s not every day you have a near death experience,” Jaskier muses, “Oh, wait.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to save your sorry ass so often.” Geralt shoves at him and instantly flushes red as his hand touches Jaskier’s bare skin and he registers again that he’s naked. 

“Put on some clothes,” Geralt mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There’s a heavy silence as Geralt waits for Jaskier to say something in response, some sort of rib, but nothing comes, just the soft swish of fabric as he gets dressed. 

Geralt grits his teeth. 

iii.

Geralt trudges down the rocky path, Roach just behind him. The trail from Kaer Morhen is downright treacherous at the best of times and fatal at worst, so Geralt would rather walk than risk Roach making a wrong step and sending them both pitching off a cliff. 

Not that that would be entirely unwelcome, after the winter Geralt has just endured. Eskel and Lambert took great pride in elbowing Geralt and making him the butt of their every joke, saying in glee that they could smell the longing drifting off of him. 

“Is Geralt in loooove?” Lambert had sang, until Geralt shoved him off his chair to shut him up. 

Lambert tumbled to the floor with a clatter of his armor, but he still wore his unbearably smug expression. Eskel had looked at him with soft eyes. “You could have brought them here, you know. I want to know whoever can make you happy.”

“Yeah, we all know how impossible that is for Mr. Melancholy,” Lambert said. 

Geralt shakes his head and puts his focus back on putting one foot in front of the other. The other witchers had endlessly pestered him about his plans for the spring, but Geralt hadn’t wanted to tell them. He likes Jaskier being just for him, and he had waited impatiently for the snow to melt in the pass. He was the first to set out, and he valiantly tried to ignore Lambert’s snickers as he left. 

Geralt is headed to Oxenfurt. He and Jaskier hadn’t made set plans to meet up, because it normally doesn’t take too long for them to accidentally on purpose run into each other, but this year, Geralt doesn’t want to wait. The winter had stretched out into much longer than normal, with biting cold and piles of snow, so Geralt is more than ready to be warm again. 

When the path finally stops twisting and turning, Geralt mounts Roach and picks up their pace a bit. It’s certainly only because he’s eager to sleep in a bed, never mind that he’s been sleeping in one all winter. 

Geralt pulls his hood up against the early spring chill and soldiers on. 

-

When Geralt finally arrives, several days and sleepless nights later, it’s just before dawn. Jaskier has always had a proclivity towards nocturnal behavior, with only Geralt’s need to be up and moving at first light tempering it, so Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier will mind the intrusion. 

Geralt ties Roach to a hitching post, promising to come back and find her a stable once the sun breaks over the horizon, and then he wanders until streets start to look familiar, and Jaskier’s cozy house comes into view. 

Geralt steps up to the door and knocks, and he definitely does not try to tame his hair into some semblance of kempt or get an anxious churning in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Jaskier again. There’s no answer to his knock, so he tries again, but Jaskier still doesn’t materialize. Geralt tries the knob, and to his alarm, it’s unlocked. 

His first thought is one of panic—what if something’s wrong? Jaskier wouldn’t just leave his door unlocked; someone could walk right in and steal his lute. Geralt opens the door quietly and creeps through the dark house. There are no immediate signs that there’s anything amiss. There are only three rooms, and Geralt eases the bedroom door open to peek inside. He’s immediately arrested by Jaskier sprawled out naked on his bed. 

Geralt takes a hurried step back, but not before his eyes dart all over Jaskier’s body. He’s just taking stock of any new injuries Jaskier might have incurred while Geralt wasn’t around to protect him from the wrath of cuckolded husbands, that’s all. Jaskier looks paler and more gaunt than he was when Geralt left him, but Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of winter. 

Geralt retreats slowly, locking the door behind him and resolving to come back when the sun is high in the sky. 

Geralt stumbles onto the street, the early morning light making everything washed out as he scuffs his boots along the ground. He meanders back the way he came, deciding he’ll stable Roach and then see about something for breakfast. He hadn’t felt hungry in his haste to get to Jaskier, but now that his enthusiasm has been tempered, he’s starving. He tries to remember the last time he stopped to eat something more substantial than whatever he could pull out of his pack. Two, three, days ago, maybe? 

Roach comes into view, pawing her hoof against the dirt impatiently. Geratlt huffs a laugh as he walks closer, untying her reins from the hitch and clicking his tongue as he leads her in a direction that he’s getting a big whiff of horse from. 

Geralt leaves Roach at the stables, with his usual stern frown at the stable boy and a chastisement to Roach to be good as she nips at his shirt. 

Roach taken care of, he sets off to look for something to eat, wondering if it’s too soon for Jaskier to be up yet. His eyes flicker shut for a moment as he thinks of the Jaskier’s robe, and how if he goes right now and knocks on his door, he might answer wearing that and nothing else. 

Although, if he does that, even Jaskier might be able to smell the lust rolling off of him. 

Geralt sighs and continues his trudge, until he stops in his tracks and redirects his path. He looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. It’s been long enough. Surely Jaskier is wearing actual clothes by now?

Geralt walks back to Jaskier’s home, the path turning from dirt to cobblestone as he gets closer. There’s a patch of grass peeking between the stones with three orange wildflowers growing in it. Geralt stoops down and picks them without thinking too much about it. 

Geralt carries the flowers loosely in one hand down at his side. When he reaches the steps leading up to Jaskier’s door, he pauses to steel himself, to try to prepare himself for if Jaskier’s whole chest is on display in his robe, but he’s interrupted by an obnoxious throat clearing. 

Geralt whirls around to glare at the person, but he’s arrested by the sight of a man scowling right back at him. “Hope you’re not planning to bother some nice girl, Witcher. Like anyone would ever want you.”

Geralt glances down at the flowers in his hand, and then back to the man, mouth flapping uselessly. He has a point. 

“She’s probably just too scared to tell you to fuck off,” the man sneers, and Geralt’s fingers itch to pull his dagger from his belt, but he restrains himself. 

He surreptitiously looks around for a place to drop the flowers. The man is right; this is a terrible idea. What is he hoping to accomplish with this? Just to make Jaskier smile? He’s an idiot. 

A door slams open, and then, “Well, I have no such qualms. Fuck off.”

Geralt turns around to see Jaskier—and thank fuck he’s wearing clothes this time, but he’s wearing that ridiculous lavender robe, with his leg jutting out right below where it’s knotted together. Geralt desperately averts his eyes, turning back around to frown at the man, but he’s disappeared. 

He looks at Jaskier, then, drinking him in after a winter apart. Jaskier makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “For me?” he asks, holding out his hands for the flowers. 

Geralt hands them over without comment, but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles as he follows Jaskier into the house, Jaskier chattering away about everything Geralt missed. 

And, gods, did he miss a lot. 

iv.

When Geralt bolts awake this time, Jaskier is gone again. Geralt would be concerned that just anyone could sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, but he knows his body has started to become in tune with the sound of Jaskier and it no longer deems it necessary to rip him from his sleep for just Jaskier padding around. 

Still, Geralt wipes the sleep from his eyes and slowly gets up to start disassembling their camp. Jaskier will be back soon, and then they can be on their way. Geralt casts his eyes to the horizon, noting the first rays of morning peeking over it. 

 Geralt ambles over to where he had tethered Roach to a tree and scratches his fingertips over her neck. She headbutts his other hand, impatiently waiting for her breakfast. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Geralt has everything packed up and he’s been leaning against a tree impatiently for three minutes when he starts to get worried. Who knows what could be in these woods? There could be any number of things looking to make a meal out of Jaskier. 

Geralt paces in a circle around their doused fire. On one hand, Jaskier could be doing something like taking a shit somewhere, but on the other hand, he might be hurt. 

Geralt freezes when he hears a faint strangled cry, and his feet are moving even though his mind has barely registered the sound. Geralt crashes through the underbrush, uncaring about how much noise he makes or the thorns that tear against his skin, until he skids to a stop in front of Jaskier. In front of Jaskier, who locks eyes with him while his cock is in his hand and comes with an aborted gasp. 

Heat burns up Geralt’s face. “Sorry, I—” he cuts himself off and flees back the way he came. 

He berates himself as he walks back to their camp. They haven’t been in a town in over three weeks, why was that not what he expected? In all honesty, that’s why he hadn’t gone after Jaskier immediately, but after he heard him shout all of the thoughts of restraint flew out of his brain. The only thing he could focus on was Jaskier needing help. 

Geralt tries not to dwell on the thought of how Jaskier’s cock had looked, flushed and jutting out proudly. Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddle bag and works her over carefully, making sure every hair is going the same way and helping her shed her thick winter coat. 

By the time Jaskier stumbles back, Geralt had thought he had managed to put the incident out of his mind, but the sight of Jaskier proves him wrong. “Ready to go?” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and shuts it with a click of his teeth. “What are we waiting for?”

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach, and doesn’t let himself look back to make sure Jaskier follows. 

v.

Geralt’s eyes crack open as the door to the inn room squeaks. He grunts in displeasure at being disturbed, and then remembers Jaskier is supposed to be with the barmaid and bolts upright. The door is just out of view from the bed, so Geralt eases himself out of bed and picks up the dagger. He creeps to where the wall juts out and then jumps out on the other side, revealing himself. 

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?” Jaskier laughs nervously, and Geralt sheepishly drops the dagger onto the chair as his eyes widen. 

“What is with you and always being naked?” Geralt growls in frustration, trying not to look at the creamy expanse of Jaskier’s skin, marred with freckles instead of scars like Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Just—what is going on?”

“Ah. Right. That. I got…kicked out.”

“Did she have a husband?”

“Um, yes, yes, that’s exactly right. He did not appreciate the soiling of their marital bed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly even as a pang of longing lodges itself right between his ribs. He doesn’t stop to examine it for too long. 

Geralt turns his back and slips back over to the bed. The one bed, because he had thought he would be alone tonight. Geralt sighs. 

There’s a quiet swish of fabric as Jaskier pulls on some clothes. “That was one of my favorite shirts, and now it’ll probably end up burnt or some other ridiculous thing.”

The doublet in question was a gaudy scarlet thing with obnoxious gold threading and beading sewn into it. The light always caught on it just wrong to shine into Geralt’s eyes and give him a headache. “What a pity.”

Jaskier shoves at his shoulder as he clambers into the bed without a second thought. Geralt swallows hard at the dip of the lumpy mattress, at the body what so close to his all of a sudden. Jaskier’s heartbeat thuds, and a peculiar smell drifts off of him that Geralt can’t quite place. 

Geralt turns over so that he’s facing Jaskier. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier buries his face into the pillow. The one pillow, that he tugs away from Geralt. “Nothing,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Hmm. Well.” Geralt pauses and tries to think of a way to respond that won’t have Jaskier calling him an emotionless boulder later. “If you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Jaskier lifts his head up from the pillow to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know that I was speaking to anything other than the wall when I talk to you.”

Geralt yanks the pillow out from under Jaskier and hits him with it. “Shut up.”

+ i.

Jaskier sighs as he unfurls his bedroll. He’s been unleashing heavy sighs about once an hour for the past week, and it’s driving Geralt up the wall. He’s asked Jaskier if everything was all right four separate times now, and Jaskier has brushed him off each time. 

“Jaskier, just tell me what’s the matter,” he begs after Jaskier sighs as he returns with water from the stream. 

Jaskier plops the bucket down right next to the fire, and some splashes out and douses the small smolder Geralt had got started. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls before Jaskier can even react. 

“Fine! You want to know what’s so wrong? It’s you!”

Geralt rears back, blinking rapidly. He wants to make a beeline for Roach and try to get the feeling of Jaskier’s eyes boring into his out of his mind as soon as possible, but he can’t just leave Jaskier high and dry out here all alone. Geralt shakes his head and turns away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier’s hand comes around to clamp onto Geralt’s wrist. Geralt nearly shakes him off, but then Jaskier is saying again, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes cautiously and arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “You know I got kicked out of that room the other night.”

Geralt grunts. “For cuckolding the husband?”

“Well, yes, but not exactly. I lied. There was no husband. Turns out some people aren’t all that impressed when you say the wrong name in the heat of things.”

“Jaskier, what does that have to do with—” 

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Oh.”

Geralt is taken aback. He’s never had this happen with a human before. It’s… hard to imagine that a human could see him as anything other than repulsive, something to be tolerated just to part him from his coin. 

“And now I see that I’ve made a complete and total mess of things. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

As Jaskier’s grip on his wrist loosens, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand instead. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen before he reaches the hand Geralt isn’t holding up to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt turns his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier leans forward to press his lips to Geralt. Their fingers become untangled as they move on, Jaskier’s coming up to twist in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s stroking across Jaskier’s cheek bone. 

When they pull away, Jaskier lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow. It seems like I could have saved my hand some work while we were on the road.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier’s crudeness. 

“Come on, you know that was funny,” Jaskier wheedles into his ear. 

Geralt pushes him aside and crouches down to rebuild their fire. “You’re rarely funny.”

Jaskier claps a hand over his chest and splutters. “Okay, still incredibly rude. Nice to know some things never change, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffs and walks away, going over to feed Roach while Geralt attempts to find some kindling that isn’t damp. 

A smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. 

When the fire is roaring once again, Geralt wanders over to where Jaskier is now sitting against a tree. 

Geralt sits down beside him. “I do think you’re funny sometimes,” he admits. 

“You’ve already wounded my pride, Geralt; it’s too late.”

“And so if I offered you a… hand, you’d turn me down?”

Jaskier jerks his head up and turns to Geralt. “That is not what I said in any way, shape, or form.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it doesn’t happen that night, or the day after that. It’s when they’re finally at an inn that Jaskier pounces on him. Geralt has barely shut the door to their room when Jaskier is on him. “I’ve been so patient,” he whines. 

Geralt raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Geralt, you’re impossible,” Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m asking now.”

Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, and Jaskier groans his eagerness into his mouth. 

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, until Geralt laughs and takes it off himself. When he turns back around after carefully setting all the pieces on a chair, Jaskier is already naked, and finally, Geralt allows himself to look. He drinks it in, notices the tiny scar Jaskier has on his thigh, rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s chest. He moves closer so he can comb his fingers down the hair between Jaskier’s pecs, and he preens at the attention. 

Jaskier reaches down to undo his trousers, and Geralt steps out of them. He takes off his shirt, and sheds his smallclothes, looking back up to see Jaskier staring at him. His soft expression turns into a self satisfied grin as he hums to himself. 

“What?” Geralt asks, already sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Nothing. Okay, fine, just—the carpet matches the drapes, is all.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a mutation. Do you think I would choose for it to be white? What were you expecting?”

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier pauses. “What color did your hair used to be?”

Geralt stops and thinks. “Brown, probably? I don’t remember.”

Jaskier whistles. “That’s terribly sad. Do you think your childhood would make a good ballad? I bet it would.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out. 

“Okay, okay. Insensitive, I apologize.”

Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier winds his arms around his shoulders and keeps him in place. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier distract him. It’s not like his childhood is something he particularly likes to dwell on, especially when there’s something much better for him to focus on in the form of Jaskier’s swelling cock judging against his hip. 

Jaskier presses up close against him, bracketing Geralt against the door and putting his palm flat over Geralt’s heart before he kisses him again. 

Geralt lets the sensation wash over him, the pleasant feelings and the vibration that sends a thrumming through his bones. He walks Jaskier back to the bed and lays him out, crawling on top and straddling him. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Gods, Geralt. You’re beautiful.”

A hot blush rises to Geralt’s face and he turns away, but Jaskier takes his wrist. 

“Don’t mock me,” Geralt mumbles. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, sitting up and taking both of Geralt’s hands in his. “I’m not.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. He looks down at his body, littered with scars, some pink and small and some, long healed, white and wicked looking. “Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs and tugs Geralt in for another kiss, before he maneuvers Geralt so he’s the one laying down. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s body, lingering on each scar until Geralt squirms uncomfortably beneath him. 

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as he makes it to the soft inside of Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt starts squirming for a different reason. A whine comes from the back of Geralt’s throat as Jaskier continues to ignore his cock, throbbing and painful at this point. 

Jaskier finally has pity on him and takes him in hand, making Geralt sigh and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier jacks him quickly, bringing Geralt to the edge faster than he would like to admit before he backs off and moves his hand. He goes back to tracing Geralt’s scars, his fingertips finding the one that cut through the muscle of his leg and healed jagged and rough. 

He hovers over a different one, looking up at Geralt with a question in his eyes. Jaskier’s wheedled most of the stories of his scars out of him, but this one—Geralt huffs. “I tripped over a rock and fell right onto a very pointy root,” he admits. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a grin, and Geralt is about to chastise him for laughing when Jaskier directs his attention back to Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt gasps as warm heat envelops him, and his hand comes down to tangle in Jaskier’s soft hair. Jaskier’s other hand comes up to stroke the part of Geralt’s shaft not in his mouth and scoots further back to trail his fingertips over Geralt’s balls and ghost over his perineum to his hole. 

Geralt shudders at the feeling, and Jaskier pops off of him with a wet sound. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Geralt babbles. 

Jaskier disappears for a moment to rummage through his pack, and Geralt tries to slow his pulse. His heart is practically trying to thud out of his chest compared to its normal steady pace, so he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier returns and settles himself between Geralt’s legs. Geralt lets Jaskier position him until his knees are bent and his feet are planted on the bed on either side of Jaskier. Geralt swallows past the lump forming in his throat as a wave of vulnerability crashes down on him. 

Jaskier must be able to sense his skittishness, because he takes Geralt’s hand in his and rubs soothing circles into it with his thumb. With his other hand, he rests the pad of his pointer finger against Geralt’s hole until he slips it in, a second finger quickly joining it. 

Geralt can feel himself tensing up, but he tries to relax, tries to let himself give in and just be boneless. 

Jaskier stretches him out until Geralt whines in anticipation. Jaskier chuckles and pats his clean hand on Geralt’s thigh. “I seem to recall you saying I was the impatient one?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier laughs again. “Fine, fine. I truly don’t understand why people think you’re so frightening.”

Geralt could list a few reasons, but he doesn’t want to kill the mood. He just grunts at Jaskier until he finally shuffles closer to Geralt and presses inside of him. 

Geralt’s head thumps back against the mattress as he squeezes his eyes shut, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness and the way the feeling radiates through his stomach. 

Are you good?” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt nods, one of his hands finding Jaskier’s and tangling their fingers together, while the other grips the sheets as Jaskier begins to thrust.

He starts out slow, almost too slow for Geralt to bear, each slide dragging inside of him and creating delicious friction while the head of Jaskier’s cock nudges his prostate.

Geralt hums. 

“Let me hear you,” Jaskier says into his ear. 

Geralt looks off to the side, but Jaskier puts a finger on his chin and tilts his head back. “You’ve never been shy; don’t start now.”

Geralt stays sullenly even quieter than before, deliberately slowing his breathing. 

Jaskier laughs at his obstinance. “No performance review for me?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Geralt says breathlessly. 

“Who am I to say no to that?” Jaskier asks, and then there’s no more talking for a while, just gasps and moans as Jaskier slams into Geralt at a pace that leaves them both panting. 

Finally, Jaskier shudders to his climax and wraps a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock to bring him over the edge with him. 

Jaskier slips out of him and collapses onto the bed beside him, draping his leg over Geralt’s thigh, his fingers meandering their way again to the forest of scars that live on Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re lovely. Do you believe me yet?”

Geralt gives an unimpressed hum. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have the whole rest of my life to make you see reason.”

Geralt likes the sound of that.

[astriefer]

Just Let Me Breath With You

Pairing: Thomastair

Word count: 3033

Warning: CHAIN OF IRON SPOILERS, injury, blood, mentions of trauma

It all happened in a swift blink of an eye. The demon attack, the fighting, it all passed in a great swipe of Thomas's boleadoras.

The attack was surprising - not because it was an attack, but because it was close to the stronghold of London's enclave- the London institute. Demons lurked in the road, near Fleet street. A get-together at the institute was held that gray, hazy day in London. What precisely they celebrated was beyond Thomas; what mattered was that old and young Shadowhunters as one joined the battle against the horde of Achaieral demons. Their numbers were the larger he has seen ever since the Mandikhor. It didn't pass smoothly - some injured, although Thomas hadn't registered who. During the fight, Henry or Christopher threw at the demons one of their newest innovation. He noticed only a blur, a small grenade-like object, thrown close to where he was fighting one of the demons. He tried to stop the nasty-looking Achaieral demon from flying - with Thomas himself- when smoke swirled from the thrown grenade. There was a hollow thud of metal hitting something, an explosion followed afterward, and the demon disappeared.  Maybe it was better not to inhale, but he was surrendered by the weird, thick smoke. He wasn't blown up from his inside out, so he considered it safe enough. As for now, the gates of the institute were behind him, hanging open to carry wounded and hurtling carriages. 

Thomas's hands were sore and calloused as he rubbed them against his neck. He swayed slightly, an expression of a fool sprawled over his face. He surveyed his surroundings in bewilderment. Soon enough, worried and relieved faces gathered around him. His friends and family crowded him, mumbling altogether to make no sense at all. It felt utmost importance to note to himself not all of his friends and family truly were there. Matthew wasn't, and so was Cordelia. He heard the word "overwhelmed" in all the havoc. He didn't understand what they were talking about - surely they had been fine if they were running around the way they did.

He kept his eyes on them, trying his best to decipher what they were saying, but his gaze inevitably slipped away from them. He caught a brown blur of torn red jacket, grey pants, and tousled dark hair. That instant, the world turned down, and all left was him and this man in another corner of the institute. Even the voices surrounding him ceased to exist.

On the spur of the moment, he briskly departed from his family and friends and walked to him, barely restraining himself from storming toward him. A hand rested on his forearm -  an attempt to stop him - but he shook it off without glancing at whomever it was. Sensing his intensive look, Alastair stared at him with a puzzled countenance. The short man was sitting against a wall, letting another Shadowhunter draw an iratze on his left arm. Thomas remembered Alastair charging to battle, now and in other battles they fought side by side, and relief I've washed him because he didn't seem to be wounded. By the time he reached them, It didn't matter who the other person was. The moment he captured Alastair's forearm, he broke into a run, not bothering to look at anyone as they hastily evaporated from the forecourt. Bad-mannered indeed, but Thomas was sure whoever that was would've understood urgent matter to talk with Alastair if he had known.

The tall man led the other through hurrying servants and leery eyes. Thomas almost knocked over a few people, but he did not find himself to care much more than mumble a half-hearted 'sorry'. He hadn't let go of Alastair, just loosened his grip slightly so he could slip his hand into Alastair's. His hold was firm nonetheless.

"Thomas!'" Alastair called out and caused him to turn his head over his shoulder. By the look of annoyance on his face, Thomas assumed the other man called his name a few times. Or perhaps, it was a result of being publicly dragged by Thomas for no apparent reason. Then he understood. Alastair had to run in order to follow him at this pace. For the first in entirety, Thomas cursed Alastair's shorter legs; but he quickly took it back because Alastair was, of course, the most beautiful the way he is. e slowed down his pace enough for Alastair to walk beside him, still dragging him after him. He felt a jolt of surprise Alastair didn't fight him about that, that he just let him take him to wherever he had in mind. Perhaps he was too stunned to really do anything else but stare at Thomas.

Thomas hadn't stopped to ponder over his good luck and no fuss from Alastair's side. He navigated through the maze of rooms and corridors, guiding Alastair to a casual unused guest room. He thrust the door open, let Alastair and himself enter before releasing his hand and shutting it close. He couldn't quite catch his breath.

He spun around to confront Alastair. Beautiful, he thought. The man in front of him was beautiful. Alastair - with torn clothes and dirt on his face - looked as charming as ever. In the last rays of the London sun, Alastair's eyelashes cast shadows upon his face. His cheeks seemed a bit red - was it because of Thomas or because of the previous fight? - and he chewed his lower lip. Thomas had the sudden urge to raise his hand and separate his lip from his teeth, pass his thumb on the soft mouth of Alastair Carstairs. The older man clearly tried to look expressionless, but he could see he studied him with concerned eyes. Thomas saw the question in them as well. Out of self-awareness, he looked down at his own clothes; they were rumpled and he lost his waistcoat in the fight, leaving him with trousers, a jacket, and a white shirt. All stained Ichor. He peered at Alastair, his clothes, and Alastair again. He must have looked like a corpse. Alastair, however, kept his captivating eyes on him, endearing-looking with his normal composed facade slightly off. 

Alastair's stopped biting his lip and opened his mouth to talk, yet before he could voice a word, Thomas stepped closer and buried his face in the soft hair of Alastair Carstairs. He relished the feeling of Alastair close to him, of his smell and heartbeat and warmth. "You're here. You're fine."

His voice was just above a whisper, but it filled the quiet room. "I wanted to talk with you for days now." Alastair's breath hitched. He hadn't pulled away. He hadn't tried to push Thomas aside. It was Thomas who backed away from their position. Alastair tilted his head up to look at his face and gasped loudly when Thomas crushed him in a hug. He groaned in pain, and it struck him Alastair had been injured.

"You are hurt." Thomas's voice was almost offended. He loosened his grip on Alastair, whose hand came to rest protectively on his side, where his bruise must have been. Thomas recalled all of sudden he had been given an iratze. Was his wound worse than just a bruise?

"It's nothing," Alastair wheezed and took a careful breath.

Their gazes met for a long moment. Alastair didn't squirm. Thomas leaned forward leisurely, testing his boundaries. When his lips collided with Alastair's forehead, he let out a sigh against the soft skin. Alastair stood strained at first, then slowly relaxed. it had not even been a week since the sanctuary, since Belial and his schemes, since Cordelia and Matthew disappeared to Paris. Alastair was avoiding him like the plague, and Thomas couldn't blame him much. He wished he could. It hurt seeing Alastair and knowing he could not be with him the way he craved to be. He suspected Alastair would back away soon, leave him alone in this room, disappear without a second glance. Come and leave like in a dream. Like in their time in Paris. 

Then, "I am glad you are okay as well."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. Or a few. He abruptly ducked his head into Alastair's neck, close to his pulse. His body lost its tense as he devoted all his heed to the marvelous sound of Alastair's heart, beating strong and fast, addicting to Thomas's mind. Not a minute later he felt small palms pushing against him gently. He drew away begrudgingly.

His eyes were unclear, while Alastair's were shining brightly. Too brightly. He lifted his arm to touch the side of the fair hair on Thomas's head. When he lightly caressed it, Thomas winced. Letting his arm fall to his side, Alastair said, "You are hurt too. You need treatment."

Alastair dismissed his injury because he didn't want to worry Thomas and make it about him; Thomas dismissed it because he didn't want to be away from Alastair. His head was throbbing; it didn't matter. "It's nothing." he tried to enfold the small figure in his arms once again, but Alastair didn't let him. Thomas didn't try again, just silently observed Alastair. The dark man's eyes were conflicted as to if debating over himself what to do now. He sighed. "We can't, Tom. Please."

It was like a heated knife to his heart. He swallowed tightly. "I know," he forced himself to speak. "I am - I keep remembering all you are. All I love about you. Your hair," he counted and planted a kiss on his damp hair.  Alastair looked at him, surprise written over all his face. "Your haughty smile, your dark colors, your eyes-"  sparks of gray in a pool of black that reminded him of a starry sky. "Your lips," He closed his eyes. "your heart, so wide and loving, despite how much you try to conceal it. Your stubbornness, kindness, and selflessness. Your love for mundane movies and history and art. All of it. The feeling I can twirl around you for hours without getting a tad bit tired."

"Thomas," Alastair whispered.

"You deserve to be happy. I wish you would let me show you some of it," he continued tentatively. The man in front of him stood rigid, and it made sprouts of doubt rise in Thomas's chest. 

"Thomas. No. No. We cannot. Don't act like we- as we could ever happen. Don't say those things to try and convince me we can be more than heartbreak for each other."

The knife twisted. Thomas blinked. "I am not telling this to try and win you over, Alastair," he said slowly. "I am telling you this because you deserve to know. Because I want you to know how much you mean to me," he inhaled, feeling a bit lightheaded, and went on. "With my friends, I always hide this part of me. The part you take in my life, in my heart. I can be all I am with you. You understand me so easily, that it takes my breath away. I- I am not as good at words as James is. I am not as wild or charming as Matthew. I am not as talented as Kit. I am me, and with you, I feel it's enough."    

"Tom, it always has been enough."

Thomas sucked in a breath. How could he say this and expect Thomas to keep his face straight and his heart in control? He tried to push Thomas away but didn't let him think less of himself. He didn't let himself what he deserved, what they both did, because he believed they would both end up hurt. "I know so many things are - complicated," Alastair snorted at that. "But right now, everything is lucid, with you here."

He gazed deeply into those dark eyes. They held depths inside them he wanted to learn off by heart. Depths he wished to explore but could not reach.

Alastair shook his head and stubbornly kept his gaze at his dusted shoes. "You think we have reason by our side, but all we have is the burning yearning and stolen time." He knew if he let himself fall this time, he could not stand back. He would lose himself those kind hazel eyes, his deep voice, his brave heart, in everything that is Thomas Lightwood.

"We have more than this," Thomas declared. "I trust you."

Alastair piped his head up, "What?"

"I trust you," he repeated."And I want you, Alastair. I know you do too. But I want you to trust me as well. Trust me when I say I will never say those things just to make you give in and be with me. I am saying them because they are the mere truth and because I care for you."

Alastair glanced away hastily, eluding his eyes. "You are in no condition to make this decision. You- We can't -"

"But do you want us to be? Do you wish us to be together? "

Electricity filled the room, and both couldn't take their eyes off the other. Thomas knew it wasn't fair of Alastair to ask such a question. He knew on his flesh what it is to admit- even simply to oneself - you want something and believe you would never have it. That is how Alastair seemed to perceive them - a false fantasy, a feverish dream that would never come true. Thomas knew as well that Alastair had made it clear he didn't think they had a future, and making him fumble with those pieces of broken fantasy could hurt worse than words could. Yet, a part of Thomas couldn't help but wonder what the other had been through to be so hesitant to let himself be happy.

Do not say it's not possible on my behalf, he wanted to shout. If you wish to break my heart, do it because what you want is not a future with me in it.

"Yes."

Relief came so fast he felt abashed. His heart pounded ear-piercingly through his body. "Tell me," he asked gingerly. " Will you allow me to kiss you?"

Alastair drew in a sharp breath. Color flooded his cheeks. "Thomas..."

Thomas searched his face, which for so long was emotionless when he saw him the past week. He saw the hurt -  how much it must be for Alastair?  he pondered - and the fear. The dark-eyed gentleman wouldn't believe Thomas's words. He wasn't sure he could trust him with his heart. For now, he shall have the certitude for both of them. There was a voice telling him he wouldn't have come to Alastair after the fight if he could think clearly. He pushed that part away, locked it in a cage, and threw away the key. 

He swallowed down the odd, stinging feeling of being rejected. "Will you allow me to embrace you, then? " Just let me breathe with you. Let me hold you in my arms, to reassure us both, to know you are here. "You don't have to. I swear to it." He took a step back to prove his statement.

The judicious decision was to ignore the offer. To turn away from Thomas and all the comfort he had to give. Alastair was on the verge of tears. Thomas hated those tears were because of him. Because of them. Alastair opened his eyes and hummed acquiescently, soft and low.

The shreds of resistance left Alastair's body as Thomas swooped him into a hug. His big hand passed his head on Alastair's back, between his shoulder blades, and to his lumbar. He absentmindedly caressed Alastairs's side, touching Alastair's wound lightly. The smaller man shied away from the contact but immediately calmed back into the hug. He stifled a whine, and in the back of Thomas's mind, he knew they both had to get checked on. Thomas put his cheek on the other man's forehead. He closed his eyes and let out a pleased noise. Alastair's arms slowly cloaked Thomas's waist, holding him close. 

"We should return," Alastair whispered. A few minutes had passed. They were alone, far away from anyone who might hear, but the moment was so dreamlike and tender both were afraid to break the air around them. That alternate reality they formed in this godforsaken room, for a glimpse of a moment.

"I find it so tremendously difficult to do," his breath felt heavy; so did his heart. "Because I don't want to ever let go of you."

He heard Alastair gasp, and Thomas's own breath was quivering. The pulse beating deep in Alastair's chest raced, and Thomas was sure he could listen to it forevermore. The hug felt more private than a kiss, more overwhelming and welcoming and warm and protecting and trusting. "I missed you."

"Tom," Alastair's voice was suffocated, and thick from emotion, as if he was a boat that slowly sank because it's full of water. Thomas tried to retreat, suddenly fearing he passed the line. He must have passed it long ago, and yet Alastair let him, despite his own warnings. Thomas was about to apologize when he felt Alastair's hands tightening around him, and then the blazing understanding hit Thomas that It was Alastair's way of telling it was fine. Haltingly, he returned to their previous position.    

They were hugging, nothing more. But the proximity made Thomas feel a sense of internal peace, like a calm wave hitting the sand lightly. It made his lungs protest because he was out of breath. How could he ever let go? It was better than nothing at all, better than air and staring long at the wall of his room. It was Alastair, and he was ready to take every drop given to him. Yet, because it was Alastair, he could never get enough. It was hard to capture it - the soft looks, the thumping hearts, the yearning and the hurt. Thomas's cheek was still pressed against Alastair's forehead. He shifted to hide his face in his strands, dark like the night, soft as a feather. Alastair's smell was intoxicating. The words slipped his tongue before he knew it. "I am glad I am here with you."

There was a beat of silence. The voice of the man he loved - Thomas almost startled himself by the heedless use of the word love - barely reached his ears.

"I am, too."

[melanielocke]

Illicit Affairs

A while ago I wrote a fic about Alastair’s relationship with Charles and posted it on AO3 (titled Tolerate it there) 

The original: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31293734

I rewrote it because some of the details were wrong and some parts I didn’t like anymore, so I’m posting the new one here. 

CW: toxic relationship, mentions of sex (nothing explicit), some of which sort of pressured (Since Alastair is a minor, it definitely cannot be considered consensual), mentions of alcoholism

It had been a long time since Alastair had visited the Paris Institute. Last time must have been the Herondale party when he was fourteen. It was a magnificent building, often said to be second only to the London Institute, and the second largest in Europe. He would be staying here for a year, away from his family. He’d pressed his parents about it for months. They’d thought he was too young for a travel year at sixteen, but after speaking of it with his mother he’d been allowed to go. Alastair guessed she felt sorry for him, being trapped at home again, and had decided he deserved a break.

Paris would be a chance to start over, or at least he hoped so. He’d thought the same of Shadowhunter Academy though, and what a disaster that had been… He didn’t quite dare hope here would be better, but he did know Charles Fairchild would be here and the few times they’d met he’d been very kind to him. Alastair had met him here, ironically, at the Herondale’s party when he was fourteen. Alastair had been so eager to impress powerful people, and Charles had seemed very impressed with his manners and his knowledge on shadowhunter politics. They’d started writing each other letters, and Charles had become Alastair’s first real friend. He certainly didn’t consider any of the boys from school his friends.

About a year ago Charles had sent him a copy of Machiavelli’s the Prince, which had become his favorite book. And recently Charles had informed him that he would move to Paris for a year to replace the head of the Institute, and had suggested he come there for his travel year. He was a bit young, that was true, but being so isolated wasn’t good for his progress and even his parents couldn’t deny that spending time with the consul’s eldest son was good for their family’s social standing.

He entered, carrying his bags with him. He’d tried to pack lightly, but Risa and his mother had added all kinds of things over the past week and now it was still heavy even for a trained shadowhunter to carry on his own.

‘You must be Mr. Carstairs,’ a woman said.

Judging from her dress and lack of runes, Alastair guessed she must be one of the mundane servants here.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘I’m Madeleine,’ she said, ‘I’m a maid here. Come, I’ll show you to your room.’

He followed the servant woman to a bedroom, where Alastair dropped his bags. Madeleine left him there to unpack, and Alastair took his time. He hated mess, and preferred it when everything had its proper place. He’d packed a few of his favorite daggers, and took them out, looking carefully for a proper place for them.

After a while he noticed someone was standing in the doorway. Familiar red hair, styled carefully, and dressed in a stylish grey suit. Charles Fairchild. He didn’t look much like his younger brother, and although everyone was always fussing about Matthew’s looks, Alastair preferred Charles’ serious face, the way he dressed like someone powerful instead of like a clown.

‘Look at you, all grown up,’ Charles said. ‘It’s been a while, Alastair. I’m glad to see you arrived.’

Alastair hadn’t seen Charles in person in over a year. He still looked very handsome, and Alastair was glad he was here. Everything was better than being home around his father.  

‘I’m glad to see you too,’ Alastair said. ‘Congratulations on making interim head of the institute.’

‘Thanks. It is a great opportunity for me. I feel like every shadowhunter politician should have some experience at an institute. Growing up in Idris leaves one a bit sheltered from the harsh realities of Shadowhunter life, I’m afraid.’

Alastair wondered where his childhood fit in. He certainly hadn’t grown up somewhere safe and sheltered, but if it made him a better Shadowhunter he had no idea.

‘That’s why many shadowhunters take a travel year, don’t we?’ Alastair said.

‘Exactly. I lived in London myself before coming here, although of course that is where my family is from and demonic activity there is exceptionally low. Come, I’ll show you around the institute. I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks myself, but I have figured out the lay out.’

Charles showed him around, leading him to the main hall where most of the meetings were held.

‘You’re not yet old enough to be in enclave meetings, are you?’ Charles asked.

‘I will turn seventeen in a month,’ Alastair said. ‘So no, not yet.’

‘Shame, I think you would do well. Of course, I will give you permission to come and watch. That way, you’ll still learn plenty.’

Did Charles really think he would do well?

‘You’re very mature for your age,’ Charles continued. ‘Nothing like my brother. I can’t believe you’re only sixteen.’

Alastair did not want to discuss Charles’ younger brother, but was flattered Charles thought he was mature. Of course, he had to be, since he’d had to take care of his father from a young age. Being young and immature was a luxury Alastair did not have, unlike Matthew Fairchild.

‘I think I would like to watch enclave meetings,’ Alastair said.

Charles showed him to the training rooms next, and asked him about his preference for weapons and Alastair told him about his spears.

‘Spears, huh? I thought I saw you with daggers in your room.’

‘Those are decorative, mostly. I collect them. But I always carry at least one spear with me when I go outside, you never know when something might happen.’

Alastair remembered the vetis demon Clive Cartwright had released all these years ago at the academy. How he’d been too scared to tell his “friends” how he felt about the prank, that it was a terrible idea. He’d gone along anyway, thinking that if he was there at least he had some control of the situation. Then Clive had died, and perhaps Alastair could have saved him, had he carried his spears. He’d never left them behind again.

‘Seems a bit unpractical,’ Charles said. ‘How do you even carry a spear?’

‘Not at all. You see, these can be folded, so I can comfortably carry them underneath my suit. And they allow me to fight demons from a bit more distance.’

Alastair hated it when he got covered in blood, ichor, and other bits of demon parts, but fortunately that didn’t happen as often anymore. He still hated the way he looked after a fight though, with his hair all over the place and his clothes messy, but it was better than being covered in blood. He always put great effort into his appearance. With people constantly judging him for how he looked, he couldn’t afford to be seen with even a hair out of place.

‘Would you like to show me a bit? I’ve never trained with spears myself, nor seen anyone else do it. It’s a bit of an unconventional weapon after all.’

Alastair hesitated, and then unfolded one of his spears from underneath his suit. He’d still been carrying it even when there was no need inside. He guessed he’d forgotten to take it off, that’s how comfortable they were underneath his clothes. It was convenient now though, since he didn’t see any spears in the training room. He didn’t feel like changing into gear just for a demonstration, that would come later during training, but he did step into the training room. It was much bigger than what he was used to at home.

Alastair threw the spear, hitting a target about as far away as he could hit from here, hoping it would impress Charles.

‘I usually carry more than one spear, so I can throw them as well without ever being left unarmed.’

‘Clever,’ Charles said. ‘I’ve mostly trained with swords myself. Of course, I do spend most of my time on Shadowhunter politics and there’s much I can teach you about that. And maybe someday you can teach me how to use a spear.’

Alastair suspected Charles wasn’t much of a fighter, but he didn’t mind. At least he didn’t have to worry about someone who spent most of his time writing letters and arguing with older shadowhunters. Charles was very unlikely to get hurt somehow, which allowed Alastair to let down his guard a bit.

During his first few weeks in Paris he continued to spend much time with Charles, the older man showing him around and telling him everything about his work, how to run an institute, and the experience he had helping his mother with her work as Consul.

‘Have you considered a career in politics yourself, Alastair? Maybe head an institute someday, or even become Inquisitor.’

Alastair had not, but he was intrigued. ‘I’d probably not do such a great job. I’m not great at getting people to like me.’

At the academy some people had liked him, of course. His “friends” who’d found his witty insults hilarious. And little Thomas Lightwood, who had followed him around for some reason. Alastair had always found his presence a bit uncomfortable, the way Thomas had seemed to see right through him. Yet at the same time, being adored did feel nice.

Most of the time he tended to antagonize people, keep them at a distance. It was safer that way, people who were scared of him would not hurt him.

Charles put his hand on his shoulder. Alastair knew it was only supposed to be friendly, but it didn’t feel that way. It sent a shiver down his spine and Alastair desperately hoped Charles hadn’t noticed. He didn’t want to know what Charles would think of him if he knew how Alastair really felt about him.

‘You don’t have to worry about getting people to like you,’ Charles said. ‘Not when you can make them owe you.’

Alastair wasn’t quite sure what Charles meant, but it sounded promising. He could make people owe him. And perhaps with Charles’ help, he could make his way up in the Clave, and escape the shame his father had brought to the Carstairs name.

He also knew none of that was likely to happen. He knew that if people discovered what he really was, he’d lose everything. He’d bring more shame to his family than his father did, which Alastair thought was completely unfair.

‘I like that,’ Alastair said. ‘I can work with that.’

‘Sure you can. But if it’s any consolation, I like you.’

At that, Alastair smiled.

The evening before Alastair’s seventeenth birthday, he discovered a note in his room.

Come to my bedroom at midnight. Make sure no one sees you.

C.F.

 Alastair wasn’t sure why Charles would want to see him in his bedroom, but he was also curious. He liked Charles in a way he hadn’t often liked people. Sure, there had been men he found attractive, but he felt like he connected to Charles. The older man seemed to understand him in a way no one else could, and was always willing to give him advice and teach him about shadowhunter politics. He had no idea, however, if Charles was like him. He would think it unlikely. Charles was a respectable man, a powerful man. Charles would be consul one day. But Alastair guessed powerful men had their secrets too, and why else would Charles invite him to his bedroom?

Alastair decided to go. He used his stealth to get through the institute unseen, something he had been good at for some time. When he was young, he’d always made sure no one discovered him before he found his father passed out somewhere. He knew even then what could happen if the wrong people found him alone on the streets at night.

No one was up at this hour, but he made sure to be quiet and not wake anyone. He found his way to Charles’s room, and quietly knocked on the door. For a moment he worried he might have gotten the wrong room and someone would be asking what he was doing here at this hour, but Charles opened the door, and rushed him inside, closing the door behind them.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘You asked me to.’

‘I did. Come, sit.’

Alastair sat down in the armchair. ‘Why did you want to see me at this hour?’

‘You seem like a man of many secrets, Alastair,’ Charles said.

Alastair couldn’t deny that exactly. Between his father and his romantic feelings for Charles, he had plenty of secrets.

‘You might not have realized,’ Charles continued. ‘But I have a secret of my own. Something that I’ve had to hide. I haven’t told a soul.’

Alastair tilted his head. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I wanted you to know my secret, because I’ve suspected for some time that your secret is similar. And I couldn’t risk anyone else finding out, so now is the best time.’  

‘What sort of secret?’ Alastair asked, trying to sound more innocent than he was.

He suspected what Charles meant, but he wasn’t about to reveal that in case he was wrong.

Charles took in a deep breath, and Alastair could tell he found it difficult to share, even now. ‘I like men,’ he said. ‘I’ve known for several years, but I’ve never been able to tell anyone. But I’ve noticed the way you look at me… The way you respond when I touch you. I thought you should know that… that you aren’t alone.’

Alastair was left speechless for a moment. Even if he’d suspected, hearing Charles say it out loud was different. He’d known he liked men for several years, but he’d never told anyone and had never met another man he knew was like him. And Charles was a man he was definitely attracted to.

‘You’re right,’ Alastair said after an uncomfortable silence. ‘I do like men. And I like you.’

Charles took his hand, brushing over it with his thumb. ‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Please,’ Alastair said, a bit overwhelmed from everything.

Charles leant over and kissed him, gentle at first, then a bit firmer. Alastair had never been kissed before, had never considered it possible, and certainly not with someone like Charles Fairchild. He’d never imagined Charles might be like him, and even then that he would want this with him.

They broke apart. ‘I presume you understand, Alastair, that no one can know,’ Charles said. ‘We would both be ruined, if people found out. But if we’re careful, we can be together.’

Alastair was fine with that. He wasn’t ready for anyone to know about him liking men and wasn’t sure he would ever be ready.

‘I won’t tell,’ Alastair promised. It wasn’t like he had anyone to tell.

Charles didn’t say anything and kissed him again, hungrier this time. Demanding. He dragged him to the bed. Alastair wasn’t sure what was happening, but it felt good. He’d never thought someone could love him, but Charles did. He was a bit scared of rushing it, it was all so new. Charles began to remove his clothes and Alastair allowed it, still not sure what was going to happen. 

When they were finished, Alastair tried to find a comfortable position next to Charles.

‘Happy birthday, Alastair,’ he said, kissing him again. ‘But you do have to leave.’

‘Can’t I… Can’t I sleep here?’

‘I wish you could, but it would be suspicious if people saw you leaving my bedroom. At this hour, no one would see you leave. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have a gift for you.’

Alastair was a bit disappointed he couldn’t stay any longer, but he quickly dressed himself and sneaked back to his own bedroom. He slept well for a change. He could still feel Charles’ lips, his hands exploring him.

The next morning, Charles did indeed have a gift for him. ‘I realized how important your dagger collection was to you,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you have one of these yet. It’s called a poignard, and was popular in France during the renaissance.’

Alastair smiled as he took a look at it. He didn’t have a dagger like this one, that was true. He’d wanted one for a while, but hadn’t gotten around to buying it.

‘Thank you, it’s beautiful. It’s true that these were popular in western Europe for a while, but they were also the primary weapon of the army of the Savafid empire in Persia during the 16th and 17th century.’

‘Oh, I did not know that,’ Charles said.  

He spent much of the next months sneaking his way in and out of Charles’ bedroom at night. Hiding an affair was exciting, of course, and Alastair loved the thrill of it, but it was also difficult. When they saw each other during the day, Alastair had to fight to keep a neutral face, to hide any signs of affection. But at night he could be with Charles, comfortable for a while until he had to leave his room without being seen. With Charles he could let his guard down in a way he’d never done before. And he gave Charles everything he had, everything he could give. The other man could be demanding, and Alastair did not want to disappoint. He wanted to be enough for him, to be able to give him all he needed.

After a few months, Charles mentioned the topic of marriage when they were alone at night.

‘When I return to London, it is very likely I will enter an engagement with miss Ariadne Bridgestock. She’s the daughter of the Inquisitor, and such an alliance could prove quite useful.’

Alastair felt his heart sank. ‘But I thought…’ He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. I thought you loved me, he wanted to say.

‘It will likely be a temporary engagement,’ Charles said, taking his hand. ‘I do not care for her as I do for you, you know that. But to be allied to the Bridgestock family will certainly help me be elected Consul when my mother’s term ends and maybe then we could truly be together.’

Alastair’s eyes went wide. ‘Do you really think that’s possible?’

‘Perhaps. But I would not mind if you chose to marry. I would still want to be with you.’

Alastair determinedly shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do that. I know I could never love a woman like I love you, and I’d never want to deceive someone of my love.’

‘Not all women mind,’ Charles said. ‘But I understand.’

Alastair was not so sure he did. But he didn’t like fighting with Charles and his lover had the gift to make him forget about whatever he was angry about as soon as they were in his bed together.

There were times when he did worry about the state of their relationship. When Charles decided he couldn’t accompany him when he wanted to see the city, claiming they couldn’t be seen together. Working together wasn’t an issue, nor was Charles teaching him about politics, but they certainly couldn’t go see the city together. And especially when Charles again brought up the topic of marriage, this time suggesting it would be good for both of them if Alastair got engaged.

‘I’m not going to change my mind on this, Charles,’ he said. ‘I do not want to be married to someone I do not love.’

‘And what will you do when your parents ask why you refuse to get married?’

‘I’ll figure something out. Besides, since we move around so much we barely meet other shadowhunters. It’ll be easy enough to convince them I simply haven’t met anyone I like.’

Alastair dreaded going back to his parents, away from Charles and from Paris and from everything that made him feel safe. But he also missed his mother and sister and regretted not being there to protect them. He wanted to mend the bond with Cordelia, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t tell her the truth about their father, and he certainly couldn’t tell her about Charles.

Charles paused. ‘You are very young. You still have plenty of time to find someone. But at some point you will be expected to marry. It could become very difficult to get ahead if you refuse. And what would your parents think, when you show no interest in women or marriage whatsoever?’

‘I guess so. But plenty of people marry for reasons other than love. My parents did, although they did fall in love over time. You’ll understand when you’re older.’

Alastair felt uncomfortable when Charles said that. His lover considered him a child still. Hadn’t he complimented him on how mature he was? Yet Charles often did not take him seriously, as if he was too young to understand. He often commented that he would understand things better when he was older. He was old enough to sleep with Charles though. He couldn’t make sense of it. So he did the best he could to please Charles, to show him he was mature and that he did understand. But when they differed of opinion, Charles always dismissed his ideas. That was fine though, he would be an adult soon enough and then Charles would have to take him seriously.

Except when Alastair arrived in London, nothing much seemed to change. Alastair attended every enclave meeting, now old enough to speak there himself, and did the best he could to have valuable input in these meetings, but Charles rarely listened. He preferred the sound of his own voice, even in the emergency they were in, which Charles wasn’t handling well at all. Just let me help you, he wanted to say. Just admit you cannot do this and you need me.

Not to mention here he was confronted with the presence of miss Ariadne Bridgestock, Charles’ fiancée. Alastair didn’t resent miss Bridgestock, he didn’t know her very well but he understood that as an adopted Indian woman, she was in no position to refuse to marry Charles. But he wanted Charles all to himself, to be the first thing on his mind, he didn’t want him to get married. He guessed that was not possible for someone like him. They’d always have to keep up appearances. He’d always have to be a secret.

Charles wasn’t there when Alastair needed him either. He was busy with his work, or with his fiancée who was ill and unlikely to wake up anytime soon, when Alastair just needed someone to talk to, someone to hold him. He had no one but Charles, no one he could confide in. He loved his sister, but he needed to protect her, not burden her with his struggles. Nor did he think she’d understand how he felt about Charles and he did not think he could take that rejection. He knew Layla was frustrated by his distance, but what else was he supposed to do?

So instead he was alone in his bedroom, after Charles had told him he didn’t have time to talk, to be more careful and not speak to him like that in public. Charles had promised he would come see him late in the evening, and he would just have to hold on until then. He knew Cordelia was spending more and more time with James Herondale and although he didn’t hate them as much as he pretended he did, he didn’t trust them either. They were so reckless, running towards danger and dragging Cordelia with them. Just like Charles, Herondale and his friends had no idea what they were up against and vastly overestimated their abilities to solve the situation, and one of these days Cordelia would get hurt because of it. And what would happen when his father was convicted? When Cordelia would inevitably find out the truth? Alastair didn’t want her to know, but at the same time he could barely stomach how she tried to rescue him as if he was some sort of hero.

Alastair cried for most of the day. His mother and Risa had gotten used to him locking himself in his bedroom by now and had left him, Risa only knocking once to announce she’d made tea. He hated crying, he hated being vulnerable like this and having to hide, but sometimes he couldn’t do it anymore. The anger had faded away and all that was left was emptiness. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was crying over, the way Cordelia kept putting herself in danger, the state of his relationship, his father. Plenty of options. It happened more and more frequently that he collapsed when he was sure no one would see, and Charles was never there to help him through it. He guessed he was expecting too much. But if Charles asked for him, told him he needed him, he would be there, always, no matter how inconvenient. Because he loved Charles.  

He’d calmed a bit when it was time for dinner, and when everyone else had gone to bed, Charles did come for him. Alastair didn’t feel like arguing again, and instead accepted that even if it was a bit late, at least Charles was here now. He drew a soundless rune on the door, just in case someone would wake up and hear them.

‘Have you been crying?’ Charles asked.

To anyone else, he would have denied it. But Charles he trusted, even if his lover was not careful with his feelings at all. ‘A little,’ he said.

‘It is unbecoming for a man to cry,’ Charles said. ‘You’ll learn, in time, to deal with your emotions better.’

‘Perhaps I would have if you had actually made time for me when I needed you,’ Alastair bit back.

‘You know I was busy,’ Charles said. ‘Really, Alastair, I thought you were past this.’

He didn’t dare say anything else on the topic. He wasn’t sure he could take Charles’ dismissal. Charles was right, of course, he was too old to cry, had been for a long time, but what else was he supposed to do? The longer he held it in, the worse it got, and as long as no one actually saw him when he cried, it was alright.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘I am too. I missed you.’

Alastair wished Charles would stay with him, but as always he left when they were finished. It made sense, of course, Charles wouldn’t be able to explain sleeping over at the Carstairs house without anyone suspecting. Still, he wished he wasn’t alone. So he cried again, even if Charles had said it was unbecoming. No one would hear him. No one would know just how broken he was. He’d considered leaving Charles, but who was he kidding, Charles was all he had. He didn’t know how he’d survive without him.

When Cordelia came to talk to him about Charles, Alastair panicked. He was relieved to hear she still accepted him, but how could she have eavesdropped on his private conversations? That hurt the most, knowing that even if she claimed to love him, she didn’t trust him. He knew she hadn’t meant to find out he liked men this way, but she’d followed him because she’d expected him to reveal secrets he’d promised to keep. He remembered how she’d called Charles cruel. How he’d defended Charles’ actions to her, claiming he wasn’t cruel, how everything he did was so they could be together.

Charles said that all the time, but Alastair wasn’t sure he believed it anymore. It seemed more like everything Charles did was to further his career, and sometimes Alastair felt like an afterthought. Or perhaps someone Charles could satisfy his physical needs with, only tolerating that Alastair loved him with everything he had. They usually met to have sex, after all, but there could be much more to being with someone. Like how he’d taken Thomas to a museum, had walked along the Seine with him… Charles didn’t want any of that. The longer he thought about it, the more sick he felt. He still went to see Charles, even if he was disgusted by what he’d done to miss Bridgestock, how he’d abandoned her when she was in coma and replaced her with miss Grace Blackthorn. Even if he wasn’t sure he still liked it when Charles touched him.

Perhaps Cordelia was right, perhaps he should leave him. Charles wasn’t going to be what Alastair needed. And then there was Thomas Lightwood… Thomas, who’d grown up to be tall and strong, but also brave and kind and heroic. Someone Alastair didn’t deserve for sure. But perhaps he could have another chance. Perhaps he could leave Charles.

He looked at his dagger collection, one of the few things that brought him comfort anymore. It felt like there was one stuck inside of him, had been for years. Removing it would hurt, but it was the only way to survive. Having made up his mind, Alastair began to write a letter. He remembered how Alastair had refused Thomas entry into his house, refused to let him make the antidote. How Thomas had insisted that he did know what he was doing. Thomas was a hero. Charles had almost ruined the antidote, and Alastair wasn’t even sure he would have minded. If miss Bridgestock had died, no one would be able to contradict his story of breaking off the engagement before she’d fallen ill.

He knew it wasn’t the best way to break it off, that he should face Charles, but he wasn’t sure he could. He knew how well Charles manipulated him, making him forget his worries with soothing words and kisses. He couldn’t face him, but hopefully if Charles read his letter, he’d know to leave him alone. He was done with this half love, and even if he would end up alone it would be better than whatever he was to Charles. He deserved better.

[omgkalyppso]

oh request time!! I request claurenz with "sure you can use me as a pillow" :D

Although this was a softer prompt from the list, I'm in a whump mood. Possibly body horror tw? emetophobia tw? Also Fae is there and it's like Fae as a student AU because. Also I didn't proofread. Again. It's tumblr.

.

There was no room for mounts in the Imperial Palace. Claude was on foot with his companions, among the screaming, the clanging of metal, and explosions of magic. He'd kept himself far from his imperial allies in the chaos. It felt rude to question their allegiance, but above all, now, would be the worst time to find a dagger in his back. Hilda and Raphael held one door to the throne room, Caspar and Linhardt the other, though they cared less about their position than Petra's unconscious body in Linhardt's glowing arms. So long as they didn't Warp away, they were serving their purpose.

Ignatz was at his back, helping him weave carefully up the steps to where Edelgard and Byleth clashed together. His heart had to stay out of it, but he could see how their emotions were tangled in their duel.

The sound of grinding stone pulled his attention away from the angry bite of relic weapons cracking in agony, in heartbreak, in despair. Claude hadn't pieced together what they were yet, but he'd seen the dragon at Garreg Mach, seen the art of the Immaculate one, seen Maurice and Macuil and the bones he'd held in his hand since the death of his grandfather. Something was wrong with the relic weapons, and something was worse when they fought one another.

For a moment Claude thought he'd confused the sound for the pained wail of the demonic beast that Sylvain, Fae, Dedue and Lorenz were keeping away from the soldiers at the base of the stairs, but then Lorenz had arched backwards as a dark shadow clouded over him, and Claude caught sight of where a wall had opened, or maybe a door — there were too many people in too small a space to see it clearly, and more masked mages, of a kind they'd seen many times now, were quietly joining the fray.

He took a steadying breath, preparing to shout out a warning, but then Lysithea and Seteth were tearing into their ranks, and Dedue clearly hit something vital in the demonic beast, and he had to trust his back to more than Ignatz's ready sword as he advanced to face the Emperor.

.

Lorenz crashed against the tiled floor, whiplash and collision bouncing the back of his head against the unforgiving surface. He coughed and felt the burn of blood follow up into his mouth, but the situation was urgent and he was dazed, barely blinking to awareness as Sylvain spun Ruin about the arm of the Demonic Beast to keep Lorenz from being stepped on.

"Hey! Your Nobleness — get up!"

Lorenz made to roll up into a sitting position, but then more fluid pressed up from his lips and he realized that the taste wasn't blood and the viscosity was wrong and the way Sylvain's eyes widened before he went back to stab at their foe was not encouraging.

He rolled to his side instead, swiping the gruesome ichor from his mouth with one hand. It was black as tar, and Lorenz tried to comfort himself that the spell hadn't lasted long — and it had to be something foreign introduced to his body, not his own liquefied innards leaving him barren, no matter the feeling in his chest or the slither suddenly felt in his gut. He coughed again, but near soundlessly, his gullet overwhelmed by the fell bile clogging his senses, spilling from his lips. His shoulders shook as he felt himself wrenched aside, and he could only hope it was Sylvain and not an enemy.

"Lorenz."

It was Fae, and that was worse than Sylvain. He didn't want them with this memory, as he touched his neck in search of the sensation of dark magic. If he could not feel it, then why did he feel as though he were drowning?

His vision started to white out at the edges, lost in a curtain of his own hair. Black dripped from his nose and eyes, and he sputtered hopelessly.

"What is this?" Fae worried, looking around for the responsible Dark Mage for a moment before pressing a healing hand on the back of Lorenz's neck.

It was not a gentle poison.

Lorenz retched again, an undignified noise of agony and helplessness, and Fae used more healing magic to force back a fever.

.

It was hours before Claude knew what had happened, conviction and curiosity leading him through Edelgard's defeat and Rhea's rescue.

And even once he was informed, since Lorenz wasn't in any immediate danger, he felt obligated to address their numbers. The soldiers didn't want to stay in the Imperial Palace, but he couldn't leave his friends and generals to camp in the street — and overfilling inns and noble estates was worse — but still not so bad an idea as camping outside the walls of Enbarr. They needed to occupy the Imperial Palace. They would be remembered as conquerors regardless.

.

Lorenz winced when he heard the door open. He was half on his stomach, facing the wall, a pillow in his arms and a throbbing in his head. His throat was raw and he wasn't better.

That was unfair, Flayn had done much to help, but when it wasn't an instant relief of magic, and instead a warning that he would be ill for a few days longer, Lorenz had felt particularly useless.

Today the Empire had fallen, and his contribution would be remembered only as vomiting in the throne room.

He couldn't help it, he whined.

"How is he?" Claude whispered, and Lorenz started the arduous process of telling his body to roll over, his shoulders protesting and his stomach feeling bloated and heavy despite there being no physical change.

"He's sick," Fae replied, though Claude had made eye contact with Lorenz by now and Fae shared a look between them.

"Have you eaten?" they asked Claude.

"I, uh—"

"I'll get you something. Take a few minutes alone."

.

Claude watched them leave and then avoided looking at Lorenz, and it was a struggle for Lorenz to accept that Claude probably felt guilty for his condition, rather than simply repulsed by the state of him.

"I'm—" Lorenz said, before running his tongue along the roof of his mouth, trying again to sound less hoarse, but failing. "I'm not contagious."

Claude did his best to school his disappointed expression upon hearing Lorenz's voice. He smiled weakly as he took the seat by Lorenz's bed, and tried to tease the nobleman.

"How do you know?"

"Seteth ... said he'd seen it before." Hoarse wasn't the half of it, Lorenz's voice was faded and high pitched and barely there.

Claude sighed heavily, relieved and heartbroken.

"Can I show you?" asked Lorenz.

Lorenz's eyelids were heavy, and Claude was confident that he wasn't looking at him, which gave Claude room for his confusion, uncertain what Lorenz meant.

"Yes. Of course."

Lorenz nodded and fussed with the two buttons done on his shirt, turning on his side away from Claude as he let it drop around him.

Black tendrils painted the sides of his ribs, and all along the back of his lungs were bruises. For a moment Claude thought they might look like bite marks, and he hissed in sympathy, worrying this was the wrong reaction as Lorenz's shoulders pinched as if either embarrassed or pained. Then he realized what the bruises were.

"Your Crest?" he asked, seeing the symbol repeated as a horror on his skin.

Lorenz nodded, but the movement hurt and he focused instead on pulling his shirt back around himself as he squeaked, "Ask Fae."

"Sure," Claude agreed.

Two nights ago they'd shared first kisses, him and Lorenz, Fae and Hilda. Claude wished now he could kiss Lorenz's injuries, his wincing eyebrows, his temple as he swept back his hair.

"Lorenz, you could've ... you could've died and I—"

"And you would have," Lorenz swallowed, "still had your victory."

Claude ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck, rolling his eyes.

"I'm ... keeping you from—"

"Shh," Claude interrupted, "I just spent almost five hours confirming who was going to the Hevring estate in town, approving patrols and — and more. I left Hilda and Annette in charge for a little while."

He didn't need to tell Lorenz about the letters Hubert had left, even as they likely related to his condition. He'd deal with Lorenz's indignation later, for now it was enough that he was safe, and that there were no secret passageways in this room, only servant hallways, and that had a patrol.

Lorenz nodded, and then held his chin with one hand and pointed at some small bits of wax paper on the bedside table.

"From Annette," he said softly. Then he tapped himself before eking out, "Couldn't eat."

Lorenz willed himself to look at Claude again. The room was dark, no candles wasted when dim light made it through a large window towards the front of the room. It felt ... foreign, and unmistakably imperial design.

"I heard that some of us were leaving the palace," Lorenz said. "I don't want to be here, Claude."

"I know."

"Ionius may have died this bed, or worse. This isn't— I can't focus. There's no comfort. I can't want to find comfort here, of all places—"

Lorenz had said too much, his throat ached and he found himself in a coughing fit, which easily devolved into him dry heaving over a bucket on the floor by the head of the bed, holding himself up on the bedside table. He'd rather have thrown up again, and allowed himself one more indignant noise of anguish before throwing himself back into the bed.

Claude's expression was dark for a second, as he pulled himself from his gloves.

"Isn't it a nice, big fuck you to the Empire if you did though?" he asked, trying to sound encouraging. "We won, Lorenz; and against all odds we saved Rhea also, though she's... She might not make it back to Garreg Mach. Far worse than you, if we're going off of Seteth's impressions."

Lorenz winced, and then frowned as Claude unwound his sash.

"Let me relax a little," Claude requested, his tone soft and intimate, fingers worrying at one of the buttons on his coat.

Nervously, Lorenz nodded and then held his forehead, obviously pained. Claude chuckled in sympathy.

"You know, I won't tell anyone if you have to resort to giving me a thumbs up."

Eyes closed, still rested on his pillows, Lorenz groaned, though a slight smile graced his lips. He heard far more clicking from Claude than he expected, and when he reopened his eyes it was to see that Claude was down to his underclothes: a white undershirt and white shorts that ended just above the knee.

"A little," Lorenz squeaked.

"Let me in," Claude requested next, holding onto his fragile confidence and the hope that Lorenz would see how his presence was the least imperial thing for almost a continent. Lorenz's purple eyes widened, and Claude tried to assuage some of Lorenz's propriety. "We've slept together before."

"Not like this," Lorenz croaked.

"No," Claude agreed.

"No," Lorenz confirmed.

Claude cocked his head in confusion. "No?"

Lorenz's eyes closed, pained, but Claude suspected it wasn't by their conversation.

"You can use me as a pillow?" Claude offered.

"What if anyone—" his voice died for a minute, and he opened his eyes to reach for a class of water on the bedside table, and drank, keeping Claude in suspense half naked in the Imperial Palace. "What if anyone other than Faedolyn—"

"Oh, pfft," Claude blew that off with a wave of his hand. "It won't be. And we're running out of time if you'll want me to leave once they get back."

Lorenz shifted back in the bed then, offering Claude room on one side, but when he realized how warm Claude was they shifted around in the dark, until Lorenz could take full advantage of Claude's offer, his cheek on Claude's chest and one of Claude's thick thighs between his own.

Lorenz had been sick with the idea of being able to cut himself and find that dark ichor, or of an eel with the face of his crest trying to batter it's way out of his ribs, but neither horror plagued him now, not feeling half so cold and clammy with a living hot water bottle in his arms.

Slowly, Claude moved his hands to rest on Lorenz's shoulders, uncertain if the bruises were painful, and after a moment Lorenz did whimper, but as far as Claude could tell it had only been him who had cried by the time Fae returned with food.

[rallamajoop]

Geralt/young!Regis

So, a question for the gallery: has this been done? (Links and further deets eagerly solicited if so.)

In what seems to becoming my personal quest to ship Geralt/Regis in all possible variations – and especially the underappreciated* – you can only ignore the possibilities of Regis’ troublesome younger persona for so long, especially in a canon already filled with magic, time travel, amnesia, etc. But I mean, I am joining this fandom years late – surely someone has done current!Geralt/young!Regis before me, right? Because otherwise I may have to figure out where this blasted ficbit is actually trying to go (not to mention how it got here to begin with), and damnit, I have so many WIPs already...

“Goddamnit, Regis.” The futility of getting through to his friend in this state hung heavy over the conversation before it had even begun, but Geralt had to try, whatever the odds. “I need you to listen to me! I know you.”

“Interesting,” said Regis, looking him up and down, the limp body in his arms slumping gently to the floor. He wiped his mouth on the back of a hand. “I don’t know you. At least, I don’t remember meeting you.” The high-pitched giggle that followed this statement was distressingly un-Regis-like. “It must have been quite a night if I don’t remember meeting a witcher.”

“You were sober,” said Geralt, through his teeth. “This isn’t you anymore. You’re under a spell.”

“Mm, the intoxicating spell of the ichor,” Regis grinned in a way that showed all his teeth. “No better way to be!”

“I’m being serious, Regis.” No part of Geralt’s witcher training had prepared him for this. “I… ugh, I can prove I know you.”

“Can you, now?” said Regis, looking genuinely – if somewhat unsteadily – intrigued. “Go on, then.”

That was the problem, though: most of what Geralt knew about Regis would be centuries too late. Still, he had to try. “Your full name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. You’re from the clan of Gharasham. Your friends include a Dettlaff Van der Eretein, and a woman called Orianna, and… damnit, I never got her name; she’s living up in Vizima now.”

Regis laughed – at least it wasn’t another giggle. “Is that the best you can do? Any number of people could have told you that much.”

“No,” said Geralt, though he was already running very thin on material. “I can tell you your idea of fun involves turning into a bat and terrorising the peasants. And…” Were Geralt less enraged, he might have thought better of what he said next, “I can tell you that you started drinking blood because without it, you never had the confidence to talk to girls.”

Regis bristled. “Well, whoever told you that was no friend of mine. Must we resort to slurs against my character?”

Geralt shook his head, helplessly. “Regis, the man you’ll grow up to be would be ashamed of the way you’re acting now.”

This did not have the impact he’d vainly hoped for; instead Regis burst out laughing again. “Oh, of course! Really, now, which of the elders sent you? Was it Carolotta? I must have seriously embarrassed someone if this is what they’ve resorted to.”

“What?” Geralt could only stare at him blankly.

Regis ignored him. “I suppose next you’ll tell me you’re the ghost of Samhain-future, here to convince me to change my ways? What a lark! Far more imaginative than I expected of them, but they’d have had to catch me much drunker than this if they hoped to make me believe it.”

“Regis…”

“Still,” said Regis, advancing on Geralt with purpose, “perhaps I would like to get to know you, witcher.” Thus far, all Regis’ movements had been so unsteady that Geralt was in no way prepared for the sudden turn of speed with which his friend was in front of him – had caught both Geralt’s wrists and twisted them behind his body, leaving him chest-to-chest with the vampire in a crude mockery of a hug.

He knew what came next.

“I would certainly,” Regis drawled, “like to know how you taste.”

The bite sank deep into Geralt’s neck. For long seconds, it was all he knew.

“Oh,” Regis breathed against his skin, “you’re simply delicious!” And what little hope Geralt had had that his friend might have stopped at ‘a taste’ sank, as Regis fastened himself eagerly back onto Geralt a second time.

Just wait, he told himself, he’ll lose concentration, let go of your hands – you can make a sign. If all else failed, he knew his blood was richer than that of an ordinary human; Regis was already drunk – maybe he’d pass out before Geralt would. Maybe…

* Book!verse: check, Game!verse: check, Amnesia!Geralt/Regis: check, Geralt/Regis/Yennefer: in progress (in both book and game variations), Geralt/Regis/The Succubus: also in progress

[witch-psychedelia]

The Huntsman

yandere!Yone x fem!Reader (1k words)

Just a short, quiet piece. Enjoy!

(cw: kidnapping)

----

“Where are you taking me!?”

Just as the words leave your mouth, your foot catches on another branch - stumbling, you just barely balance yourself. One foot in front of the other, dragged along by the deathly pale hand tightly gripping onto your wrist.

His pace is hurried, though slower than when he first took off with you. The moments just before replay in your memory.

How the creature towered over you, its silhouette blocking the moonlight, the red glow of its hungry eyes, and its long, sharp claws raised to strike you down. The flash of steel, and its black, ichorous blood splattering the ground, a few drops falling on your cloak. You barely got a look at your saviour, when footsteps in the forest caught your attention. That’s when you felt something grab onto your wrist. And then you were gone.

He turns his head, slightly, to look at you. That fearsome mask, as red as the leaves falling around you, shadows his eyes, and it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t spoken much - the most you recall is him telling you his name, some way back. Yone. You swear you’ve heard it before, but can’t recall where.

Yone’s voice is low, and hushed. “Somewhere safer,” he answers curtly. He looks forward, and marches onwards. You weakly tug your wrist. His grip does not relent. You can only follow.

In silence, you hear only your own breath, the foliage rustling under both your feet, and the occasional whistling of the late autumn wind. Does Yone breathe? You haven’t seen anything to suggest it. Your breath condenses in front of you, and dissipates in the night air. Shivering, you clutch the edges of your cloak a little tighter, the cold pricking your fingers, and your face.

Above, the tree boughs give way to the sky, the thin and wispy clouds drifting past the crescent moon. Yone slows, then comes to a halt in the forest clearing.

He looks down, pressing his lips into a line for a moment, before asking you-

“Would- when is the last time you’ve slept?”

You blink. It wasn’t a question you were expecting, that’s for sure. Gazing up, you note just how high in the sky the moon is. Though you’re not sure what the time is, you know it’s rather late. Close to midnight, perhaps.

Still looking up, you mutter, “Earlier in the night than now.”

There’s a pause, and then Yone nods slightly. “Of course.”

Your wrist falls out of his grip - his hand wasn’t warm, but the feeling of the cold air on your skin, still surprises you. Or maybe it’s the lack of pressure there, now.

“Rest now, if you can,” he says. He turns to you, fully now. “It’s a long journey.”

You run a finger on your now-free wrist, half expecting to feel marks on it. Your feet feel sore, but twitch, with the opportunity to run. Yone stands still, simply watching you. He doesn’t seem nervous, at all.

“I’ll keep watch,” he adds.

He could probably catch you, if you ran.

Your eyes wander to one of the scabbards on his hip. But if he wanted to hurt you, he could have done it a long time ago. And if he did, what would be the point of saving you? His actions wouldn’t add up if he wanted to hurt you, you figure. But it’s only a small comfort.

With a sigh, and Yone’s gaze following, you walk to a nearby tree, and sit down with your back against it. You pull your knees towards you, then throw your cloak around yourself and snuggle into it, the closest thing to a blanket you can get right now. Burying your head in the fabric, it’s easy to close your eyes.

How heavy your eyelids feel, now. How surprisingly easily, sleep comes to you. You’d find it concerning, if you weren’t so tired.

You open your eyes, suddenly. Something cold brushes against your cheeks. Your breath quickens, your eyes widen and dart up. You see him kneeling in front above your curled up form, pulling his hand away from your face.

“You’re a light sleeper,” he observes, an unexpectedly nervous quiver in his voice.

Your breath steadies, but your eyes stay wide. It’s better than it could be. Yone averts his gaze, his mouth slightly open, as if he wants to say something. You see the moon behind him, starting to sink behind the trees.

It’s better than it could be, you tell yourself again. At least you didn’t become prey for a monster. Did you thank him, for that? He’s still your saviour, in that sense.

Still, you’d rather be home, in your own bed. It’s much warmer there. You wonder if Yone’s taking you to his own home. Presumably, it’d be safer there. But it’d be safer in your own home, too. You hope it’s warmer, wherever you’re going. It’s hardly the worst temperature outside, and especially not the worst to come, but you still hate it. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, that’s for sure - you wouldn’t wish bad things on people to begin with, really.

Yone places a hand on the ground, seemingly about to get up.

“Are you cold?” you blurt out.

His gaze snaps back up, to meet your eye. His eyes were still shadowed by his mask, though.

“Well...”

Evidently, you caught him off guard.

“In... a manner of speaking, yes,” he finally replies. He falls silent, after that.

Without a word, you put a hand on Yone’s shoulder, and pull him towards you as you throw your cloak over him. You hear him quietly gasp, in surprise.

Putting your arm around him, you rest your head on his shoulder. Your suspicions were correct - he’s not terribly warm to the touch, even now. It’s more comfortable than just leaning against the tree, at least.

“This is for saving my life,” you mutter, tucking your cloak around the both of you. As the words leave your mouth, you wonder how true that is. You hate the thought of anyone being left to shiver on a cold night.

Yone is frozen still, for a moment. He then wraps an arm around your torso, and leans his head against yours.

“You’re a kind soul...” he says, still sounding a little astonished, as he gently pulls you just a little closer.

You feel him relax, as he leans on you. It feels just a little warmer, now.

[delicatelyherdreams]

Pragma(tic) 17: Though Mighty, She Falls

Pairing: Persephone!Bucky Barnes x Hades!Reader

Summary: In a world where the old gods never truly died, you must learn to navigate your way through the ups and downs of immortality. And if living forever wasn’t hard enough, an ancient evil is now threatening to break free after centuries of silence. And as if that still wasn’t hard enough for you, now a pesky and infuriatingly handsome god is trying to wedge his way into your life. Gods, work, love, and conflict—what more could a goddess need? [Hades & Persephone AU]

Word Count: 5663

Warnings: Language, blood

Pragma(tic) Masterlist

Previous 16: He Feels His Heart Break

In all your millennia, you’d never actually thought about death. Sure you were surrounded by it every single day, but you never pondered what it meant to die—to cease to live. Death was nothing but a term to you. It meant that another soul would be joining your kingdom. It meant that a mortal’s life had ended. It had no place in your life. And yet… Now it seemed that you were staring your own death right in the face.

The spirits in Elysium had all described it in different ways. Some said it was peaceful—a sweet release from life. Others said it was the worst pain they’d ever experienced—an excruciating way to go.

You had never known such pain before. Your body was alight with angry fires. Your limbs hurt at the slightest of movements. You were always parched, your mouth never moistening. It hurt to breathe. Every ragged breath you drew in lead to a round of severe coughing. The air in your lungs was tainted gold. Ichor flowed freely from the corners of your mouth, running down your chin in thin rivers. 

You’d been poisoned. 

It was the only diagnosis Pietro could come up with. Natasha and Carol had dragged him down to the Underworld after they and Peggy got you laid up in your bed. Though he was reluctant to venture down under as it was, he did his job well. As the god of medicine and stuff like that he was the only one capable of figuring out what had ailed you. “She’s been poisoned,” he said, pulling his hands away from your head and chest. He’d done his assessment, letting his magic flow through you through the two entry points, and that was the only explanation he could come up with. 

“But you can cure her, right?” Natasha’s voice had been desperate, begging. She feared for you when she saw you collapse in the throne room. You, her strong, older sister, had never once caught a cold, and you had suddenly started throwing up ichor. She was terrified; it was a strong poison if it could cripple a goddess such as yourself so much. 

Pietro has hung his head before delivering the harsh news. “I can’t... I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s old magic, old poison. I didn’t even know that it still existed. I don’t know of anything that would heal her… I’m sorry.”

No cure; no choice other than to wait it out, let the poison run its course, and pray that you would recover. 

He’d left you with some medicine that might alleviate the pain and make you more comfortable, but that was all he could do. 

There was no hope for an immediate recovery, you knew that much when you looked into Pietro’s eyes. They had been full of pity, of sadness, like he was looking at a woman who was already dead and just didn’t know it yet. 

Your sisters were optimistic, setting off on a fool’s quest to find you a cure. Just because Pietro had never heard of one didn’t mean that it didn’t exist. He was a newer god, after all, and so he didn’t know everything. There was always a chance that there was something as old as the poison itself that could act as the cure.

You, however, knew better. You’d seen enough death and pain yourself to know that chances were this was not going to end well. 

And so, after the first week, you began to make arrangements for your absence. It had to be done anyways, after all. It would be a long time before you recovered if you did at all. The Underworld would still run, but you wouldn’t be able to do it. You barely had the strength to sit up without help, how could you have the strength to run a kingdom?

So while your mother, your sisters, and Peggy took turns watching over you and helping you do basic human things, you divided up the responsibilities of the kingdom.

Peggy, bless her heart, took over the paperwork you had to do. All the Elysium applications and the renovations and other paperwork went through her. She’d shadowed you enough to know how to do it. When she wasn’t nursing you or helping you do basic things, she was down in the office trudging through the endless mountains. 

Pierce, helpful as ever, volunteered to lead the reconstruction efforts on Tartarus, directing gods and other beings on how to contribute, and take over the more official, executive aspects of the Underworld. Being the god of Death, Pierce had taken it upon himself a millennia ago to learn the way you ran things. Aside from Peggy, and obviously yourself, he was the only one fit to rule in your stead. While Peggy was managing the admin side of the Underworld, Pierce took over the engineering and execution of all other functions. 

Together, the two of them completely filled your role, leaving you with the peace of mind necessary to get better and recover. 

Though after the third week of pain, it didn’t look like you ever would. 

Natasha and Carol told you not to think like that, but you knew. You knew how death worked. You knew how death felt. You knew that the chances of you pulling out of this were slim to none. It was only a matter of time now.

———

“Mrs. Thomas from Elysium called again.”

“Oh yeah? What’d she say.”

Peggy shrugged as she took a seat on the chair that had been set up at your bedside. “Oh, you know. Just calling to ask how you’ve been doing, wondering if she can bring you over her famous soup. She’s certain it will help you get better.”

You croaked a laugh, the breath stinging your chapped lips. “She always thinks food will solve everything.” Your eyes followed Peggy as she sat down, looking at the bowl she held in her hands. “If we can get me to keep food down, maybe take her up on that offer. I miss her cooking.”

She only smiled as she reached into the bowl. From it she pulled a damp washcloth. The white was vibrant in the darkened room as she wrung it out, letting the excess water fall. She reached over and began dabbing your face with the cloth. “I’ll be sure to do that then.”

You closed your eyes under the cool surface. It was a welcome relief from the constant fire you felt. One of the downfalls of this whole poisoning thing was the fever that came along with it. In all the three weeks of the pain, the fever had never once broken. If you were mortal, the constant heat would’ve boiled your brain by now. But, being immortal, it only caused you severe discomfort and the occasional delusions. The chill of the cold cloth was refreshing and it drew a shuddering sigh from your lips. “Thanks, Peggy.”

“Of course.” She continued to move the cloth across your face, letting it rest the most on your forehead. When it warmed she dipped it back into the ice-cold water and repeated her movements. 

It was soothing—just a bit of comfort from the pain you were in constantly. You let out a shuddering breath as you sank deeper into your bed. Your chest rose and fell with labored breaths. It was getting harder and harder to breathe with every passing day. You had a feeling that it wouldn’t be long before you couldn’t breathe at all.

As if sensing your doubtful thoughts, Peggy’s hand stilled. “You’re going to be alright. I know it. Your sisters are searching for a cure and Pietro is getting everything he can think of.”

You didn’t want to point out to her that just yesterday he was almost out of ideas. You simply nodded. “Alright…” you rasped out. Carefully you inhaled sharply, letting the air scratch at your lungs. “But let’s not discuss that right now. Tell me how things are going. How’s my kingdom?”

Being laid up, you never got to go out and see how things were going for yourself. You had to rely heavily on Peggy and Pierce’s reports. You were paranoid. You’d never been away from the throne for that long and not having your hand in the workings of the Underworld made you anxious.

Peggy hummed. “It’s recovering. The Tartarus breech really did a number on things, but we’re rebuilding. Elysium renovations are going smoothly. The crack in the wall is almost fully filled. Pierce is doing well.” 

“Then why do you sound uneasy?”

She blinked, surprised by your question, but you hadn’t missed the hint of malice and skepticism in her voice when she spoke of Pierce. Something was wrong, you knew it. 

“What’s he doing?” You locked your eyes on her face, doing your best to read her expression.

Her brows furrowed and she tilted her chin down. Her expression was confused and she was confused by her own confusion. “He… He’s doing well, almost too well. (y/n), I can’t explain it, but the way he’s acting whenever he goes out to the cave… It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like he’s already had everything planned out. He’s doing too well, and it’s giving me this bad feeling.”

“You’ve tested him?”

“Of course I have. He’s not being controlled—not by Kronos or anyone else for that matter. He’s completely in his own mind.” 

You licked your lips and gazed up at the ceiling. “Have you been down to the cave? To inspect his work?”

“No. I haven’t had the time to. Between keeping you alive and dealing with paperwork, I haven’t been able to.” She sighed heavily and dunked the washcloth into the ice water once more. Setting it on your forehead, she said, “But I will soon; cast a spell or two of my own to help. Do anything to make sure your father stays locked up in your absence.”

You nodded your head. “Thank you, Pegs. This is why you’re my second in command.” Your smile was weak as you grinned at her, but it was there and meaningful.

She laughed at that and shook her head. “I’m not sure that that’s the only reason why, but I’ll take it.” She sighed. “How have you been feeling?”

“Oh, shitty as ever. But hey, you’ll be proud of me. I’ve only thrown up ichor once today.”

“That’s progress!” Her eyes brightened with hope.

“Yeah… Progress…” You didn’t want to tell her that that one episode had lasted nearly a half-hour as you lay hunched over the side of the bed expelling what little you’d eaten that morning from your stomach and some more ichor with it. Your tired sigh ended with a half-hearted smile. “I’m tired now, Pegs,” you said softly.

She pulled the cloth away from your forehead. “Would you like me to leave you to rest?”

You barely moved your head in a nod. “Please.”

“Alright.” Her chair scraped the ground as she pushed it back and stood. “I’ll be down in the office working. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

The sound of her footsteps echoed in the room, growing fainter and fainter until they were nothing. You were left in silence once more. It settled heavy on the room, enveloping you in the cocoon of solitude. You used to hate the silence, but now it was welcome. Even sick, you rarely had a moment to yourself. Everyone was always scared you’d die if you were left alone for even one second. There was almost always someone by your side. 

It was overwhelming.

But you almost preferred the company. It kept your mind busy and away from unpleasant thoughts about your impending demise.

Though no one around you wanted to admit it, you knew it to be true: you were dying and there was nothing that could be done about it. It was a depressing thought, really. You didn’t want to die, but it didn’t look like you had much of a choice. 

You were going to die, and that was just the way of things. 

And that was…

Honestly, not okay with you. But the pain was just mind-numbing. Sure the medicine that Pietro prescribed for you helped ease it a bit, but it would always return with a vengeance. Nearly a month of this had sapped out all the strength and magic you had, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could take it all.

But you chose not to dwell on it. You couldn’t. It would only just kill you faster.

Approaching footsteps broke the silence, tearing you from your thoughts of dying and the partial-slumber it had been lulling you into. 

Your face screwed up at the disturbance, but you didn’t open your eyes. “Peggy?” you called out, the hoarseness of your voice surprising even you. “Did you need something?”

A chuckle was your answer. “It’s not Peggy, Precious.”

At his voice, your eyes snapped open. “Brock,” you croaked, trying to muscle your way into a sitting position. You couldn’t see him when you were reclined and you refused to be prone in his presence. You hadn’t seen him since you’d sent him away all those months ago, and that conversation had been left on severely rocky terms. You’d told him to leave, ending things between you pretty harshly. You couldn’t believe your ears when you heard his voice and so you had to see him for yourself. But to do that, you had to sit up.

You didn’t get too far. The pain in your chest and abdomen flared with the movement and you cried out in agony.

Brock was at your side in an instant, his hands pushing down on your shoulders ever so gently to ease you back against the pillows.. “Shh, Precious,” he murmured softly. “Stay down, it’s okay.”

Reluctantly, you obeyed. Gods, you wanted to sit up and berate him for ever showing his face in your home again, but you weren’t strong enough to do so. So you settled for just glaring at him. “Why are you here?” you hissed in a low voice. “I thought I told you to never show your face again.”

“You did not say that, Precious,” he said, his voice was gentle and kind. “You told me to leave, you didn’t tell me to never come back.” When you were situated on the pillows again, he set one of his large hands on your forehead and brushed back your hair.

“That still meant leave,” you spat. You looked up at him, your eyes narrowing. “Why have you come? How did you get past Peggy?”

“I have my ways. You forget I used to frequent this room without anyone knowing I was ever here. I know how to get in undetected.” With that, he sat down in the chair Peggy had been sitting in not even an hour ago. He pulled his palm from your forehead and reached for your hand which was lying at your side. You were too tired to move it, so he laced your fingers together. “I’m here to see you, Precious. I heard you were sick, but I— I never imagined…” His voice broke as he looked at your face. You could only imagine how horrible you looked.

“You’re not welcome here anymore, Brock,” you growled. “You should leave.”

“No, not until you hear me out.”

“Th-There’s nothing left for me to hear! I told you to leave.”

“Precious—”

“And stop calling me that!” You yanked your hand out of his grasp and glared daggers at him. “I’m not your precious anymore. You have no right to come in here and call me terms of endearment like we’re still… Like we’re still together! You don’t have that privilege anymore and I want you—” Your lungs were arrested by a fit of coughing and your body convulsed. Pain wracked your body as you hacked and coughed, trying to expel the insatiable itch in your throat. You coughed into your hands, cupping them at your mouth to catch the ichor that was thrown from your lungs so they didn’t land on the covers.

Brock rubbed small circles over your back as if that would help ease the pain or the coughing. “Shh, just get it out.”

You wanted to curse his name, banish him from your home for forever, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have the energy to. When you finished coughing, you sat back against the pillows. Your hands were stained gold with your own ichor and it hurt to breathe.

He helped you get back the best he could, being nothing but gentle with your fragile body. He handled you like you were made of glass; like you could shatter at any second. When you were settled once more, he took his hand off of you and hung his head. “Please, Precious. I needed to come back; to apologize if nothing else. Please just hear me out.” His voice was desperate and soft; he was scared of what you would say.

You didn’t want to even give him the time of day, but because you were basically a captive audience, you really had no choice. You sneered at him down your nose but nodded your head. “You’ve got two minutes.”

“Thank you.” He inhaled sharply before he said, “I’m sorry for everything I ever did—or didn’t do—to you. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just scared of what you wanted. I thought that, if I committed myself to you, you would grow tired of me and leave or that I would lose myself in the process. I wasn’t ready for that.”

“But you are now?” You scoffed. “It’s a little late for that, Rumlow. You broke my heart too many times and I found someone who wouldn’t.”

Bucky…

Gods, you hadn’t thought about Bucky in weeks. Now, whether that was intentional or accidental, you weren’t sure; it had the potential to be both. 

It could’ve been accidental—just something that happened as a result of being preoccupied with poisoning and worrying for your kingdom.

But it could’ve been intentional—a coping mechanism designed to keep your heart from breaking further. Your body had enough to deal with; fighting the poison was taking everything you had, you had no energy to spare to deal with the pain of remembering Bucky’s devastated expression. You couldn’t even think about him without hurting.

As if on cue, pangs of agony struck your heart as his face surfaced in your mind and you fought hard to shove it back down. You couldn’t dwell on him now. He was gone. You’d sent him away. You’d said awful things.

He probably hated you now or at least didn’t love you.

You didn’t know which one hurt worse.

“Ah, yes. The god of spring.” The words were bitter and his lips curled back in a snarl. “If he loved you so much, why isn’t he at your side? Why isn’t he here taking care of you, searching for a cure for your poison like I am?”

Your eyes must’ve widened in shock because he laughed. “Yes, Precious. I haven’t been at your side these last few weeks because I’ve been searching for the cure.”

“H-How do you even know what’s wrong with me?” Your mouth was agape, though it probably wasn’t hard to guess what had afflicted you. You showcased all the typical signs of poisoning. But he hadn’t been around to see them.

He smiled softly at you. “The water has ears, Precious. Your sisters and your friend are out in the yard talking about it constantly. I have heard it all, and I think I’m this close to coming up with something to help you.”

“Is that why you’ve kept your distance? You didn’t want to come crawling to my side empty-handed?”

“Yes.” He reached out and grabbed your hand, holding it tightly. “I didn’t want to come back to you unless I knew I had something to offer you. I know it may have been selfish, but please know that my intentions were nothing but good and pure.” He pressed his lips together as his eyes searched your face. “Please, (y/n), let me prove to you that I really do care for and love you. Let me help you. Let me stay.”

Every fiber of your being screamed “NO,” but you knew that he would argue with you and you had no energy or strength to deal with that. It didn’t mean that you’d let him weasel his way into your bed once more; it just meant that he could maybe pick up a shift in watching over you and give Peggy and your sisters a bit of a break.

Reluctantly you nodded your head. “Alright. You can stay,” you whispered bitterly.

He visibly relaxed, his lips falling into a soft smile and his eyes glistening in the dim light. “Thank you. Don’t worry, Precious.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead, letting them linger there for longer than you liked. 

At one point in life, you would’ve reveled under his touch, but now that you’d had a taste of something different—something better that only Bucky could give you—it only made you cringe and long for the lips you really loved.

He exhaled sharply, letting his breath ghost your skin, before finally pulling away and replacing his lips with his hand. His skin was rough against yours as he pet your head, brushing your hair back. He smiled softly at you, his eyes holding a promise. “I’ll find a way to heal you; I promise I will. You’ll get better.”

———

You got worse.

Brock took over your evening schedule, taking care of your dinner by helping you choke down what little of ambrosia and nectar you could and holding your hair back as you later threw it up and by making sure you could sleep and were clean. He’d talk to you at night, telling you about how the kingdom was doing, how the rivers flowed, how everything was going to be okay.

If you didn’t absolutely loathe the man, you would’ve been grateful for him. He was a calming presence at your side, just talking with you. Not pestering you about cures or technicalities of the kingdom. He just talked about whatever came to mind.

For a while, nothing changed.

But then, a week after Brock came back, you started seizing. 

Carol had been watching you that evening when you suddenly tensed up and blacked out. She said you suddenly went stiff as a board before shaking, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your muscles convulsed. She didn’t know what was going on at first, panicking as you just shook. She was unable to do anything to help you and you had a feeling that that kind of powerlessness made her scared.

Pietro was called right away and he made his entrance right at the end of the seizure as you were coming out of it. 

You were confused and dazed; you didn’t know what was going on and it made you scared. You were tired and sore and your head ached. 

It didn’t take Pietro long to diagnose what had happened.

It had been over a month since you’d been poisoned, and you weren’t able to keep anything down, so Pietro labeled it as a provoked seizure due to low ichor-sugar. With no food or drink able to enter your system, the levels had dropped dangerously low and had triggered the seizure.

And that was when they broke out the IVs and feeding tubes. 

Your mother demanded them; she was growing desperate. While the gods didn’t need to eat to survive, they did need the nutrition to keep internal levels balanced. Such nutrition typically came from ambrosia or nectar, but you couldn’t get either down or keep them in your stomach.

So, if you couldn’t get the nutrition of your own volition, they’d force it in.

The tube and needle were extremely uncomfortable. They’d snaked the feeding tube into your stomach through your nose and you couldn’t move your head without it shifting weirdly. The IV stuck out of the back of your left hand, making it impossible to move it without pulling the needle out or jamming it in further.

You hated it, but it was necessary.

Your body was in desperate need of the nectar and ambrosia; the lack of it was only hurting your health more. 

But even when you were getting the sustenance you needed, you still were not getting better. Your health continued to go downhill gradually until you didn’t even have the strength to lift your hand. Breathing alone was a chore, and it was clear that your days were numbered.

Even your family had to admit it.

You weren’t living; you were surviving and you were barely doing that.

It was only a matter of time before you were out of time.

Brock was at your side, holding onto your hand as he always did, but for once he was silent. His eyes were dark and hooded, his lips were set in a seemingly permanent frown. He was sour, brooding, thinking, and the silence that entailed was driving you mad.

“What’s on your mind?” you croaked out, breaking the silence. Your voice, though the only sound in the room, was hollow and ragged. It wasn’t yours anymore; it was nothing but a harsh ghost blowing away in the wind. 

His brown eyes flickered up to you and his face softened. “Oh, nothing much, love. Just about you.”

“What about me?” You squinted at him, fighting to keep your eyes open. Even that was a struggle now; you were so weighed down by exhaustion that your eyes refused to stay open half the time.

He squeezed your hand gently. “How even when dying you’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good to you like you deserved. I’m sorry I was stupid and foolish. I’m sorry I ever let you go.”

“Brock…” His apology was sincere and it made you happy and peaceful, but it wasn’t going to change anything. He’d had his chance and, even though the odds said that you would never have your Bucky again, he was never going to have another one. You’d done that game and your death wasn’t going to make you want to play it again. Sure, you were grateful that he was here to help take care of you, but that didn’t entitle him to another shot at your heart. You’d learned your lesson and you were never going to let him in again.

“No, don’t say anything, Precious. I know what you’re going to say but I can’t hear it. Just… Just let me pretend for a moment that I have you back, that you’re mine once more; just for a little bit longer.” He let out a shuddering breath then, bowing his head and resting it on the bed. “Please…”

You stayed silent. You didn’t have the energy to burst his bubble. You closed your eyes as the room fell into silence once more. Maybe you could nap now, but you didn’t want to sleep. All you did anymore was sleep and you were tired of it.

“Rumlow,” called a soft voice in the dark.

You cracked your eyes open to see Peggy standing at the foot of your bed. She was looking down at the man that was sitting beside you, her eyes cold and unfeeling. You hadn’t even heard her come in…

He straightened up, letting go of your hand and standing. “Peggy.”

The woman’s eyes glowed softly in the dim light. “You can go home now,” she said, her voice low so as to not disturb you. “I’ve got her for the night.”

“Are you sure? Really, it’s no trouble for me to stay here and watch her.” You could hear it in his voice that he didn’t want to leave.

“I��m sure. Go home.”

Brock looked like he wanted to resist, but the stare that Peggy was giving him was withering. Eventually, he backed down, lowering his head in submission. “Call me if you need anything,” he mumbled before walking out of your room.

It was just you and Peggy now, and you cracked a weak smile up at her. “You got me?”

At the sound of your voice, she turned her attention to you and grinned. “Yeah, always.” She made her way over to the side of the bed and sat down in the chair that had become a permanent fixture in your room. “How are you doing?”

“Same as always,” you choked out. “I’ll be honest with you, Peggy: I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Your voice cracked as you spoke and your chest rose and fell with labored breaths. “It… It hurts so goddamn much.”

“I know, love. I know.” She reached forward and placed her hand on your forehead, letting it sit there as her eyes fluttered closed. “I know it hurts. I know you’re suffering and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you…” She swallowed heavily and took a shuddering breath. “I think we’re running out of time, (y/n).”

You figured; but it was different hearing it said. It had seemed that there was some unspoken rule that stated that they couldn’t talk about death or how fast you were dying out loud, but now Peggy was breaking that rule and it made the situation that much more real. If everyone was being honest, you had maybe a week left at this rate. It’d been two months and, while you’d put up as much of a fight as you could, you were fighting a losing battle. 

You only nodded your head slowly. “I know we are… I think I’ll be leaving you soon. My mom and sisters don’t want to admit it, but I can feel it. And I can guarantee that if you had Pierce look at me, he’d know that I’m… He’d know that I’m dying.”

Peggy winced as the words were said aloud. Her eyes squeezed shut and her shoulder shuddered. “I don’t want it to be so.”

“But it is so, Peggy; whether we like it or not…” You inhaled sharply through your nose. “Which brings me to another point that neither of us are going to want to talk about, but it has to be done. If— When I die, I want you to take over as Queen of the Underworld.”

“Wh-What?”

“My sisters have their own kingdoms, my mother is retired, and I don’t trust Pierce enough to place him on the throne. You’re the next eligible candidate for the throne, and so I want the crown to pass to you.” You smiled up at her. “You’ll make a fantastic queen.”

She shook her head. “No, no I won’t, (y/n), because you won’t die on us. We can’t let you.”

“Peg, I don’t think you have a choice.” You took another deep breath but this one hurt you and caused you to groan. “I’m sorry.”

Peggy pressed her lips together and stood. “It’s not your fault, love. You should sleep now. I’ve got some things I have to do, alright?”

You were a little saddened that she was leaving you, but you understood. You just dropped a major bomb on her and you would want to get away if you too were in her position. “Alright.” 

She left, leaving you all alone. The room was dark, silent save for the sound of your labored breathing. It was an eerie setting: you in bed—a corpse just barely living—in the dark with only the dim light from outside illuminating the room. If you weren’t stuck there, you’d be running out as fast as possible; but you couldn’t move. You didn’t think you ever would again. 

Your eyes fluttered shut. You took a shallow breath. You clenched and unclenched your hands. 

It’s almost over. It’s fine. It’ll be okay.

So why did your heart hurt so much?

Probably because you were leaving people behind.

That seemed like a common theme in death: it didn’t hurt the person dying, but it killed everyone left behind. You couldn’t help but think of your mother and sisters, of the few gods that had been your friends, of… Of Bucky.

Oh, Bucky. You wouldn’t ever get to apologize to him for hurting him, apologize for not being strong enough to protect him, apologize for not being strong enough to live for him. You just prayed that Peggy would talk to him after it was all said and done. Maybe he could go to your funeral. You’d like that—if he was there for one last goodbye even if you weren’t. Maybe he would forgive you anyways. 

You started to drift to sleep, letting the darkness over take you, when you were disturbed by a sharp breath. Your face contorted in discomfort as you forced your eyes open, ready to chew out whoever had disturbed your sleep, but the air was sucked from your lungs when you saw the figure at the foot of your bed.

Red rimmed the man’s eyes and dark bags sat beneath them. His skin had lost its summer glow. A short stubble had covered his jaw; he hadn’t shaved in a long time. The blue of his irises was obscured by tears welling up in his eyes. His hands, large and worn, gripped your footboard with white knuckles as he stared at you, his lips parted in a saddened gasp. 

Tears welled up in your own eyes as you gasped for the air that had been stolen from your lungs. Your mind must’ve been playing tricks on you; this wasn’t possible. But that didn’t stop you from croaking out, “B-Bucky?”

Next 18: He Holds Her Close

[bytheangell]

Hey!! Can I request a Thomastair angst <3 feel free to ignore this if you want too!! But the fics you write always give me feels 💜💜

Progress Is a Process (Read on AO3)

Alastair hangs back with Thomas while Matthew and James walk ahead down the streets of London. While he’s doing his best to enjoy the time spent with Thomas, even if it is time on patrol, the fact that Matthew and James continue to glance back at them every five seconds with cautious, narrowed eyes, leaves Alastair feeling far from at ease.

“They hate me,” Alastair says quietly so the words don’t reach the other two down the narrow street they just turned into.

“They don’t,” Thomas insists. “They just don’t know you properly.”

It was Thomas’ suggestion that Alastair be put on more patrols with him and the other Merry Thieves, hoping through sheer exposure the others would come around to him. It isn’t going well.

It took long enough for Alastair to smooth things over with Thomas, someone who wanted to forgive him deep down. He isn’t sure the same will be possible with the others. Thomas’ friends don’t even know that the two of them have started dating - so far as they know Thomas just wants to be Alastair’s friend, and even that they barely tolerate. Alastair doesn’t want to cause any waves, he and Thomas only just began dating and if it came down to Thomas having to choose between the Merry Thieves or him, Alastair’s relatively confident he wouldn’t win.

But while Alastair certainly doesn’t want to put Thomas in an uncomfortable situation with his friends, he’d also really like to be holding Thomas’ hand right now, instead of just walking close enough that their arms occasionally brush.

Alastair gives a noncommittal noise and turns the conversation back to a book the two of them were reading through together, ignoring Matthew and James’ looks and focusing entirely on Thomas.

...perhaps too entirely on Thomas. He doesn’t hear the sounds of something following them until the shadow crossing over Thomas alerts him to the demon’s close proximity. Alastair spins, shouting, “Thomas, watch out!” with just enough time to turn and grab Thomas’ shoulders, pulling him to the side.

Alastair winces at the feeling of claws breaking through the clothing and skin down his right side, from just under his ribs down to his hip bone.

Ahead of them Matthew and James hear the shout and turn, only to be faced with four demons of their own, boxing the four Shadowhunters  in.

Thomas’ eyes drift down to where Alastair clutches at his side instinctively, but another demon leaves them no time for an iratze as they draw their weapons and begin to fight. There are eight demons total, Alastair notes after a quick assessment, and though they’re outnumbered two to one they seem to be doing alright… until Alastair hears the clattering noise of a dropped weapon - Thomas’ bolas. He turns in time to see Thomas fall beside it, unmoving. Fighting the panic he feels at the sight Alastair throws his spear from where he stands, piercing the demon that moves to descend on Thomas, dispatching it in a splattering of ichor. He moves as if possessed now, protecting Thomas and killing both of their share of the demons in order to sink down to his knees beside his fallen boyfriend.

Thomas is still breathing, and in fact, doesn’t appear to have any cuts at all. An unlucky blow must’ve knocked him out, perhaps? Before he can say any of this, Matthew is beside him, followed by James, both of whom crowd around Thomas and effectively box Alastair out.

“Let me help,” Alastair insists, stele out.

“Why start being useful now?” Matthew snaps, already moving to the other side of James so each of them can support one side of Thomas to carry him back. “Just go home, Carstairs.”

Alastair is tempted to follow, but he doesn’t want to cause a fight - more importantly, he doesn’t want to delay them leaving with Thomas and getting him help. Without another word he turns and leaves, planning to go home, heal himself up and change, and go back to check up on Thomas afterward.

Now that the rush of the battle is wearing off, however, Alastair can feel something’s wrong. The sudden pain in his stomach and rush of dizziness hit him at once, and it’s all he can do to change his course, spot a shadowy section of a small side street for cover, and fall back against the wall of a building, sliding down to the ground as unconsciousness takes him.

---

It takes him a few disoriented moments to place where he is when Thomas wakes up in the Infirmary at the Institute. Blinking slowly he tries to remember what happened to land him here - the patrol, talking with Alastair, and then-

Alastair. Thomas looks to the beds beside him, but they’re empty.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Matthew’s voice sounds from the far side of the room.

“Where’s Alastair?” Thomas asks immediately.

“Not here,” Matthew says, sounding pleased about that fact as he makes his way over to Thomas’ bedside.

“He didn’t come back to get his wounds looked at?” Thomas frowns. He’s a little disappointed that Alastair wasn’t there for him, but at the very least he should be here for himself.

“What wounds?” Matthew sounds confused. “I told him we didn’t need three of us to carry you back and sent him home. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so insistent on trying to befriend him, I-”

Just then Cordelia arrives in the doorway looking panicked. “Where’s Alastair?”

“Why is everyone asking me that tonight,” Matthew mutters. “I told him to sod off. I can promise all of you that if you’re ever looking for Alastair Carstairs you will not find him anywhere in my general vicinity, at least not willingly.”

The words would sting more if Thomas wasn’t distracted by his immediate panic, matching Cordelia’s. “He didn’t come home?” Thomas directs the question to Cordelia.

She shakes her head. “He was due back hours ago. I thought maybe he’d be here…”

“He was injured, during the patrol. He got hurt pushing me out of the way, I-” Thomas pauses to focus beyond the fear the strikes him, attempting to take a calming breath. It doesn’t help. “The demon that attacked us, it had claws, there might’ve been venom. Poison. If he never made it home…”

Alastair could be anywhere.

Alastair could be dead.

“We need to find him. I’ll go back home, get something of his to track, maybe-” Cordelia suggests, but stops as Thomas shakes his head.

“That’ll take too long,” he says. Though Thomas sounds hesitant, he only pauses for a moment before making up his mind.

Thomas reaches a hand down the front of his shirt, pulling up a necklace hidden under his clothes. At the bottom of the silver chain rests a ring with a recognizable C and the Carstairs sigil around the sides. It is, unmistakably, the Carstairs family ring. Alastair’s ring.

“Here,” Thomas says, holding it out. “Use this.”

Thomas catches the flicker of recognition in Matthew’s face before immediately looking away.

“Thomas…” Matthew starts, but Thomas doesn’t even have to stop him because Matthew stops on his own, at a loss for words over the revelation.

“Find him,” Thomas begs, knowing that he’s in no condition to try a tracking rune just then. “Please.”

Matthew nods, taking the ring out of Thomas’ outstretched hand. “I’ll get James. We’ll track better together.”

Thomas closes his eyes in the silence that fills the room once more, but knows he isn’t going to sleep again any time soon.

---

It’s an hour later that Matthew, James, and Cordelia return with an unconscious Alastair in tow. They remove the top layer of his clothing to reveal the blood-soaked fabric beneath and 4 angry cuts running down his side.

“He seemed fine when he left,” Matthew insists. “He didn’t say anything about being hurt, I swear it.”

“That’s because he’s a stubborn ass,” Thomas points out. “Who would want to make sure you take care of me first instead of wasting time fighting with him.”

Thomas rises from his bed, ignoring the way the pain in his head throbs from the sudden movement, and stands besides Alastair. It’s easy to see where Cordelia already marked two iratzes when they found him, and Thomas pulls out his stele to go over them again for good measure. Only then does Thomas drop his hand to the side to rest over Alastair’s cold, unmoving fingers.

“Dad is getting a salve for the wound and a potion to help with the demon toxin,” James says.

None of them make eye contact with Thomas so he can only hope they don’t see the shine of tears that threaten to fall for a moment before he gets control again.

“Thank you,” he says, turning back to them, but in such a way that his hand drifts behind him to remain over Alastair’s. “I know you’d just as soon leave him for dead, so...”

“We would never,” James insists.

“Especially not knowing he’s… uh... important to you,” Matthew says, sounding unsure of what he should be saying here. Thomas hasn’t actually said anything on the matter of him and Alastair yet, not that there’s much left to guess at now, but he doesn’t want to get into it with Matthew and the others just then.

“I’ll stay with him,” Thomas says instead, his tone making it clear that this isn’t a request. “We can talk later?” He adds to James and Matthew, knowing that he owes them some sort of explanation but hoping they’ll be willing to wait.

“Yeah, of course,” James says, and Matthew nods in agreement before they both turn and leave.

Thomas sinks into the chair next to Alastair’s bed, thinking of all the things he plans to say the moment Alastair wakes up. He’s relieved but also filled with regret, his mind full of every moment he and Alastair could’ve greeted one another with quick a kiss, or held hands, wondering if they hadn’t still been a secret if Alastair would’ve come back to the Institute rather than leave himself alone and vulnerable.

Wondering if taking so long to realize just how important Alastair is to him, even if their relationship is still relatively new, could’ve been the thing that lost him forever if Cordelia hadn’t come when she did.

He’s so deep in thought he doesn’t notice that Cordelia moves to take the chair opposite him until she speaks.

“I thought he’s been happier lately,” she says, handing Alastair’s ring and chain back to Thomas. “I was glad to see it, and even more pleased to find out the reason.”

Thomas doesn’t have to ask what she means - he only smiles as he puts the necklace back on, taking what comfort he can from the knowledge.

---

Alastair barely has the chance to blink once before he feels someone’s hand squeeze around his at this first sign of consciousness. His eyelids flutter open slowly to reveal what he already knows by the increasingly familiar touch - that Thomas is with him.

“Thank the Angel,” Thomas sighs next to him, and Alastair notes that he looks tired and wary, all the way down to his bones.

“Are you okay?” Alastair asks him.

Thomas pauses, then laughs incredulously.

“You pass out in an alley on your way home and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Alastair cringes at the memory, then at the pain in his side as he shifts to try and sit up in the bed.

“Careful,” Thomas warns, placing one hand on Alastair’s shoulder and the other behind his back to ease him down again. “Cordelia will return any minute and if she thinks I let you re-injure yourself she’ll kill me.”

Thomas gives Alastair a brief summary of what happened, including the fact that their relationship, while never officially declared, isn’t quite secret anymore either.

“I’m sorry they found out,” Alastair says at the end. “I know you didn’t-”

“No, I’m sorry, Alastair. I’m sorry I didn’t tell them sooner. I was a fool for trying to get them to like you more first. I don’t care if they like you. I like you, and that’s all that matters. Forgive me for not realizing that sooner?”

Alastair smiles. “I think I can manage that.”

Thomas smiles back, relief flooding through him as he leans over Alastair for a kiss. They’re both dimly aware of the sound of approaching footsteps and, as neither of them break the kiss, have both decided to embrace showing just how much they care about one another, no matter where they are and who is around to see.

They’re done hiding and they couldn’t care less about who the footsteps belonged to just then.

...that is, until the person clears their throat and speaks in the unmistakable voice of Mr. Herondale.

“I see both my patients are feeling better,” Will says, and Alastair can feel the grimace cross Thomas’ lips while they’re still pressed against his, just before Thomas pulls away with a slight flush on his cheeks.

“Much better,” Alastair confirms.

In fact, injury notwithstanding, this is the best he’s felt in a long time, and he has a pretty good reason to believe that things will only get better from here.

Alastair glances to his side and grins at Thomas, watching as that reason smiles back at him.

[abluescarfonwaston]

Shapeshifter Au - 9

Here is our very long Reunion chapter! Part 8 Part 7 

TW for blood, violence, mind control, and temporary memory loss

There were advantages to traveling alone.

He could spend as much or as little time in a town as he wanted- or at least his purse allowed. If he met a pack of wolves or a flock of birds or a herd of deer he could enjoy their company as long as he liked because no one was waiting for him.

He enjoyed the company of every manner of creature that would tolerate another’s company. He made friends and they cared for him and he did his best to care for them back and it was almost enough.

It was almost enough when the crowd beat their feet to his songs and cheered.

It was almost enough when the pack near Oxenfurt greeted him with open mouth kisses to confirm his wellbeing.

It was almost enough when the barn cats curled around him in the stable, rumbling their contentment.

Then winter came- as it always did. The birds flew south, the bears disappeared into their dens and the wolves grew too lean to feed what they all knew was an outsider.

They didn’t say as much. He didn’t wait around to hear it.

He knew what he was.

The animals all knew on some level. That on the edges he wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t quite the same as them.

So he did what he did every winter- because he’d never survive it on his own.

He answered the letters from court bidding him to play.

The Countess de Stael had requested him back this year and he was seriously tempted by the offer but he’d heard rumors of a mage at her court.

He could resist Yennefer’s call so whoever they were was unlikely to overwhelm him. But Yennefer had also never tried to.

Best to stay away. There were other offers.

He accepted a very generous offer from a southern family that lived on the coast. The sea called and maybe in the spring he’d walk out into its depths. Maybe he would love it so much he’d never walk the land again and the hollow space in his chest would fill with the sea.

“You are as beautiful and youthful as the stories say Master Jaskier.” His skin prickled at the young lady’s attention. They were alone in the dining hall, aside from the staff and numerous guards. “There are even rumor you’ve elven parentage. Tell me, have they any merit?”

Even people knew he wasn’t quite human.

“I’m afraid not Lady Nadia.” Where was the rest of her family? The war may have emptied the house somewhat but her mother, her unwed sister, or her brother who should have been far too young for service should have been there. “A good skin care routine can work wonders though. I could show you if you’d like? Not that much could be done to further enhance your radiance.”

He smiled brightly and sent her a quick wink. In her bedchambers there was a chance they’d be alone. He could ask what was wrong.

If not he would leave tonight. No amount of gold was worth his life. Every shape screamed at him to flee.

He hadn’t lived this long by not listening to them.

“Oh come now there must be more to it than that. There are rumors the White Wolf lent you his time in exchange for your company.”

He forced a brilliant laugh and took a long but shallow drink from his glass. “Such is not an ability of Witchers I’m afraid.” Even if it was Geralt wouldn’t share it with him. “But if its stories about The White Wolf you request I am more than capable of providing.”

“Firsthand accounts I hope?” Her voice coy but her shoulders ridged and her knuckles white where they gripped the spoon.

He stood and made his way to her, offering a hand as he quickly bowed. “Shall we retired to a more private local? I promise to tell you all my best stories about him.”

Her eyes met his and he saw the desperation there. A wolf who’d lost her pack. Her eyes flickered behind him and he knew. Knew this day ended in shackles.

He let the performer fall away and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. She was so young. He’d seen countless people do far worse for far less.

“It’s alright dear. Make sure my lute gets back to Oxenfurt will you?” Tears brimmed in her eyes, tremors shaking her small frame. He pressed a kiss softly to her forehead. “I know what we do for the people we love.”

He stood as apologies cascaded from her turning to the guards. Really an unnecessary amount of guards. He knew he had a reputation for being slippery. For leaving empty cages and locked shackles in the night. But really. This was an unnecessary amount of soldiers.

He offered his wrists out to one of them with a smile.

“I do hope you’ll be returning her kin once this is over. I mean really? All this fanfare for a bard? Your higher ups must really need some music. Is the war truly so dull they’ve stooped to holding nobles hostage to kidnap innocent bards?”

One of the other soldiers walked over and snapped the shackles around his wrist. Dimeritium shackles.

“Expensive!” He whistled. No one had ever bothered with Dimeritium shackles before. He wondered if they’d work. “Someone thinks I’m a sorcerer! I must admit, I’m very flattered but my skill and good looks were a blessing of hard work and luck, not magic.” The man yanked the chain, pulling him along.

“I hope they keep their promise Nadia! Care of Oxenfurt University! Don’t forget!”

“Shut up.” The soldier demanded, accented heavily.

He jabbered at him in Nilfgaardian. “Oh you just expect a bard to shut up do you? Want that blessed silence? Well guess what? Never really gone in for that so you can just-“ There was a sharp pain on the back of his skull and the world went dark.

 The floor rocked under him and he suspected it wasn’t just the blow to the head. He was curled in a cage on the rocking seas. Hands still shackled. Feet bound in silver.

They were really overdoing it.

“He’s finally awake. Go get the sorcerer.” Someone whispered from behind him. He curled in tighter and ignored the growing thrumming of a song. It wasn’t as pleasant as Yennefer’s. Not as strong, even when he entered the room. It just made him feel gross.

“So sorry for the harsh treatment Master Jaskier.” The sorcerer stood over him. Voice assuring him that they were not sorry at all. “You’re rather known for being a difficult man to keep and we wanted to make sure you didn’t leave before I could make your acquaintance.”

“Could have just asked. I’m sure Nadia would have been glad to show off her bard.”

“That was the plan but it sounded like you were getting cold feet for your performance.”

I would perform for you any time. It drawled, barely even convinced of the man’s merit itself.

“Did you let them go?” The man made a questioning noise. “Nadia’s family.”

“Why of course we did!” He lied. There was nothing to be done for that lie, so he choose to believe it. “And nothing bad will come to you either if you help us.”

The man crouched in front of him. He curled tighter hiding his face in his knees. “I’m sure.”

“Look at me Jaskier.” He curled tighter. Digging his hands into his legs.

Look at him.

Look at him.

Look at him.

It chanted over and over and over and he curled tighter and tighter and tighter.

“Look at me.”

There was power in those words and his body uncurled to lax. Knelt in front of him with hazy eyes as he beat at the magic manipulating his mind.

Their eyes met.

The man gasped.

He reached his hands through the bar, cupping his face. “I didn’t think there were any of you left.”

Cold dark sludge poured in. Cooling the distant memory of lightning in his veins. Covering the broken tapestry in his heart in something vicious and unpleasant. He did not move.

“Are you the last unclaimed familiar? There are so few of you in this world and you landed right in my lap. Destiny has truly blessed me today.”

The cold flooded him. Chilling every cell to the brittle bone. The hollow in his chest never filled. It Froze and never filled.

“You are mine now. I claim you.”

“Yours.” Someone said.

“Unlock the cage I want to see what he can do.” The others hesitated. He barked a command and they leapt to do as ordered. Do as ordered.

Doors unlocked somewhere and locks dropped free. The man bid him follow. Follow.

He followed.

There was sun beating on the deck but it didn’t warm him. The cold was there and the hollow and the man and that was all. The thick ichor sliding through his being.

“You need a better name familiar. You are no flower are you?” The man stroked his hair.

What are you then?

“Transform for me. I want to see what you can do. What you really are.”

What are you?

The cold was power. He was not helpless. He was not prey.

He spilled into a mountain cat. A predator. Claws long and sharp. Fur dense against the cold that filled him.

He was never enough of any one thing to truly be them.

Wings split from his back covered in long feathers. Claws into talons. Muzzle into beak. Size growing as more and more waves of cold chilled his mind.

“An Arch Griffin.” Awed a man. Hand on his beak. “The things we will do together.”

‘Griffins mate for life.’ A different man’s voice said to him. He didn’t know that voice. But he knew it was right.

His chest was hollow. His mate was gone.

He opened his beak. The cold man smiled.

He closed it and the man smiled no more.

There was blood and screaming and pain.

He collapsed in a clearing. Pulling out bolts that pierced his hide.

They bled. It joined the blood on his face and claws. It stuck his fur together in clumps. Feathers of his wings stuck up at the wrong angles.

He didn’t bother fixing it.

He flew in a random direction. When he was tired he slept. When he was hungry he ate.

Distantly he thought it was sheep’s blood in his mouth but he didn’t care if it wasn’t.

His mate was gone and the world would pay for it.

The smell of death drew him in.

Force knocked him from the sky.

The cold seeped from a crack jarred opened by it.

He shrieked scrambling out of the way of the hunter’s blade. He spit at him and the hunter rolled away quickly.

“Fucking arch Griffin. Not getting paid enough for this shit.” He said dodging around his claws landing a blow to his shoulder.

It burned with cold that rushed out with his blood. His beak snapped closed around the hunter’s white hair as he slipped away.

“How do you like that silver?”

He didn’t.

He leaped to the skies away from the hunter.

Force blast his wing and he spun into the dirt.

He’d broken that wing once. Someone had helped him then.

He spat at the Witcher, acid burning his throat on the way up.

“You’re not much of an arch griffin are you?” He said easily side stepping it. “No wonder your mate’s dead."

He roared talons and sharp beak seeking to tear him apart.

His mate wasn’t dead! His mate just-

The silver opened a fresh river of cold on his chest.

His paw slammed into the Witcher’s side hurling him backward.

Just didn’t want him.

The cold sludge slowed to a drip. His body was warm. Warm but cooling as red heat flowed from him.

“Getting too old for this.” Geralt cursed, standing. Preparing for another attack.

He didn’t move.

His mate didn’t want him. There was no blood to drain from the earth in retribution for their death. He just wasn’t wanted.

Geralt’s face twitched. “How long are you going to make me wait?”

He laid down on his side, stretched his neck long and tried to remember them. The mate who wouldn’t even greet him on the other side.

He remembered Gentle hands on a broken wing.

Geralt stepped forward, blade raised.

He remembered hands gently smoothing down long brown ears.

Geralt eyed his unmoving limbs, stepping around the blood crusted talons.

He remembered a hand in his on a sunny rock by a lake.

Geralt raised his sword above his ribs to plunge it in for one final blow.

He remembered a song. The notes escaping his beak one last time.

Toss a coin to your Witcher.

The sword didn’t come down.

Oh valley of plenty.

“Jaskier?”

That was his name wasn’t it? His chest trilled. Jaskier. A flower.

Maybe that’s what he should be. That way he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

The sword clattered against the dirt. Silver was delicate Geralt would never-

He raised his head to look and Geralt’s arms buried themselves in his thick mane.

“Jaskier.” Geralt said it again. “Jaskier.” Like a desperate prayer finally answered. “Jaskier.”

This form couldn’t purr technically but he didn’t let that stop him.

Geralt sobbed as the rumbles started. “I thought you were dead.”

How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Years?

What was time anyway?

He ran his beak through the tangled mess of Geralt’s hair. Blood chipping off his beak into it.

Geralt shoved his face away. “You need a bath.”

That felt very fair. Everything stuck together and was covered in grime and he stunk.

He nudged Geralt’s shoulder. So do you.

He huffed a laugh and collapsed into his side. “Fuck. I really needed that bounty.”

He screeched as if in the throes of death. Gagged dramatically and flopped into the dirt, sticking his tongue out to really sell it.

“Hm.” He considered him. “Somehow I doubt that would work.”

He gave them a look and then returned to being dead.

Geralt shoved him. He glared at him. Fuck off I’m dead.

Geralt shook his head. Hand running through his mane. The last of the cold sludge slowly sealing the silvered gashes near to closed.

The form was bowing in the center, like it might snap under him, even though he didn’t particularly mind staying in this form. It was a new sensation.

“Shouldn’t have yelled at you.” His hands clung tightly to his mane like he thought Jaskier might run away. Which was stupid. He’d never run from Geralt. Not really. Even in the forest as the bear. He hadn’t run from Geralt.

He rumbled his agreement. Seemed like a bit of an overreaction.

“I didn’t mean to bind you.” Geralt muttered into his coarse, sticky fur. “Believe that I never meant to bind you to this life Jaskier.”

He could feel the form splintering under him. He purred louder. Bound. He wasn’t the one Geralt had wished for. Wasn’t the child of surprise accidentally claimed.

He was Jaskier. He’d chosen this life. He’d loved it. Even when it was awful he’d chosen to love it.

He rubbed his, frankly disgusting, – how did he let himself get so disgusting? - face against Geralt’s back. Soothingly. He hoped.

“I never meant to bind you to me.”

The form cracked out from under him. Geralt’s knees hit the ground as his supporting Griffin shifted into a bard in his arms.

Geralt squeezed him to his chest. “I didn’t know any other way to break it. I got to the bottom and you were gone. Really gone. I knew I’d never see you again. Because you only stayed-“

He reached his blood crusted hand to Geralt’s face – tried very hard not to remember whose or what’s blood it might have been – and cupped the thick stubble of his jaw cutting him off. “Because I wanted to.”

“Geralt that’s why I stayed. Because I wanted to. Because I wanted to be with you. We’re not fucking bound by magic.”

“Yennefer said-”

“Yennefer doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.”

Geralt glared at him and he buried his face in Geralt’s armor to avoid it.

Yennefer knew what she was talking about.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Yennefer said you’re drawn to magic. That you. Were bound to mine. I swear I never meant to.”

“Geralt.” Geralt wouldn’t look at him, eyes locked on the horizon even as his arms crushed him in his embrace. “Geralt look at me.”

Geralt allowed his head to be turned to look at him. He knew he must look terrible. Hair long and matted. Coated in grime and blood and who knows what else. Fresh blood still dripping down his chest.

There was a tapestry of tiny threads, only made strong by how they were tightly woven together.

There was a question forced from his mouth once. Long ago. Because he wanted to stay by Geralt’s side.

“Geralt you did not bind yourself to me. I bound myself to you. Because I never wanted to leave your side.”

“You left my side all the time.” He tried to jest. Face soft with sadness and longing.

“And I always found my way back didn’t I?” He leaned up. Tried to get closer to Geralt’s face. He wanted to be close in every way.

“You did.” He agreed before his face shuttered closed in pain. “But magic. Yennefer said it could compel you to do anything. Love anyone if it was strong enough.”

“Geralt, dear heart?” Geralt’s embrace didn’t let him close enough to his face, so he settled for burying his face in the junction of his shoulder. “I think I bit a man’s head off for trying to use magic to make me love him. And he was far stronger than you. Fuck Geralt you don’t even set off the singing.”

“Singing?” Geralt shook his head slightly before burrowing into the muck of his hair. “Thought you abhorred violence.”

“I do and once we wash this off me I’m going to try very hard never to think about it again.” He was honestly feeling a bit nauseous from even mentioning it. The way his-

Ugh. Don’t. Don’t think about it.

“You do smell awful.” He buried his nose deeper. “Absolutely disgusting.”

“Well I feel even worse so can we maybe go get me a hot bath? I’ll tell them you saved me from the griffin and killed it.”

“With how you look right now they might actually believe it.”

“Hm.” He agreed trying to refill the space Geralt once resided with his scent. With the warmth under his fingers and the too tight embrace. “Geralt I’m sorry.”

“You owe me no apologies Jaskier.” Geralt continued his nuzzled wandering through his hair.

“I’m sorry for binding you to me. For” For the child of surprise. For the djinn. For everything. “For staying when you didn’t want me.”

His mate was gone. Not dead. Just didn’t want him.

“Jaskier I didn’t want you to go.” Geralt’s grip crushed the air from his chest before easing only slightly. “I just didn’t want you to have to stay.”

Tear tracks cleared clean creaks down his face and he turned up towards Geralt. Forced an arm free to turn Geralt face to his. “Can I stay? I want to stay.”

He nodded. “Please.”

Geralt relaxed his grip enough to press their foreheads together. “Please.” He said again.

“What do you want me to be?”

Geralt’s eyes widened slightly, recognizing the musically magical tint he had missed the first time. Or maybe just recognizing the words from all those years ago.

“Jaskier.” He hummed. “I want you to always be Jaskier, no matter the form you take.”

He closed his eyes enjoying the tapestry reweaving itself over the hollow in his chest.

He slowly opened his eyes to Geralt’s soft smile.

His mate wanted him.

He slowly angled his face, closed his eyes, and kissed him. Gently kissed his mate.

He eventually withdrew just a breath. Taking in his mates softly closed eyes and serene face.

His mate. The griffin trilled.

His mate? Oh fucking instincts he’d just kissed Geralt- not even for the first time- because of his inhuman instincts.

And his mate?

His face and neck and ears went hot with blood. Geralt eased his eyes open and chuckled, resuming his scenting nuzzle now over his jaw and face. “I have something of yours.”

“Hm?” He squeaked as Geralt’s lips ran over the pulse of his neck.

“You’ll have to explain to the university I didn’t steal it next time your there of course.”

His lute?

“My lute? She’s safe?” He begged of him.

Geralt’s eyes turned up to him and he nodded before resuming his self-appointed task of scenting every inch of his grimy neck.

“Well then you definitely did steal her because I said care of Oxenfurt not Geralt of Rivia who wouldn’t know proper lute maintenance if his best friend spent two decades explaining and demonstrating it to him.”

“Would you rather I’d left it? You’d have to wait until spring to play it again.”

“And why is that?”

“Because we’re going to Kaer Morhen.” He buried his nose in the crook of his neck and took a long drag of his scent before finally standing them up. “Can you walk? There’s someone you need to meet.”

He leaned against Geralt as the dizziness of standing slowly subsided. “I think so.” He assured.

“If you want me to carry you-“

“I want to stay human a little longer.” He interjected. It had been so long. It felt like it had been so long.

He smirked cheekily. “Then I can. You’re not heavy.”

“Oh.” He leaned on Geralt for a few moments more. “Just an arm for now. I want to walk.”

Geralt nodded hooking an arm under his.

“So who’s this mystery person I need to meet?”

Geralt smiled, leaned over and told him.

[notfeelingthyaster]

Imagine (Son of Hades! Percy; Godswapped! Big Three's kids) (8/8) or (13/13)

Blood of Olympus pt.2 - The War

Hello! If you're here, it means you probably already know - but check the masterpost for both warnings and the other twelve parts.

I want to thank everyone who followed this fanfic? Imagine? AU? for the month it took us to get here. Tell me what you thought about it, if there's anything you are anxious to see in the epilogue - yes, we'll have an epilogue!

If you like my writing, you might be happy to know that I'm starting another AU - same style, no patience for prose - this time, a daughter of Zeus! Percy. Don't worry - it bares almost no similarities to this, and part 1 will be out before the epilogue, so stay tuned. For now, good reading :))

Maybe it was the death of Malcolm, but after that night, there was something different about the crew of the Argo II. Their journey to Gaea changed them.

Will notifies them as soon as morning rises, leaving Annabeth secluded in her room and Perseus to whatever was happening upstairs - they are told not to interfere.

No one knows exactly what happened on the deck between Perseus and whoever dared to attack them - there is nothing there but sea salt and dried ichor when Frank goes to take his shift.

The screams will haunt him for the rest of his life - they pleaded for mercy, but after this journey, no one in here is a merciful person.

There's an aura - an aura Frank recognizes well, for it clogged around Hazel in her first days in Nova Roma. An aura of death. Perseus is looking at the sunrise, cleaning his gold-stained ax.

He looks happy - for the first time since Tartarus, he is humming a melody to some song that Frank is pretty sure is from Disney. Percy grins at Frank.

"Hey, man."

Frank doesn't ask. He trusts Perseus - Perseus took a whip to the back, side by side with him. Perseus fell on Tartarus for his best friend. Perseus would give his life for any of them. The son of Mars Ultor is sure he did what he had to do.

It still spooks him a little when Perseus leaves, whistling what he now recognizes as Fathoms Bellow.

They're journeying to Delos - for more half a day - and then, finally, to Athens. Frank wonders if the monsters are too afraid of them - or if Gaea just told them to stop attacking.

The fact is that, for several hours, no monster touches them again. Might be the death air encapsulating the ship's bow. Might just be their reputation.

With nothing to do, Frank watches as the sun rises and his friends starting to walk around.

Leo has no fixed hours - so he might be either awakening or going to sleep. He crosses through Frank in his post and rambles for a second - the Legionis thinks it's cute.

Leo crosses Hazel - she never wakes past eight unless she had a night shift - who is probably going to breakfast. They exchange a kiss, and Frank's heart aches.

Hazel stops to talk with Jason - the last one awake, since Perseus and Will are probably sleeping, Annabeth still hasn't left her room, and Nico and Piper went to their room after the morning announcements - probably to grief.

The blonde is uncharacteristically serious for such an early hour, but with recent news, it's expected. Frank goes back to look at the sea - and wonder if any of them will ever be free of this.

The two of them retract to the war room - to plan the attack on Gaea. They are at a serious disadvantage. It might be better for them to ride back to Long Island and try to unit the camps and plan a war - just like they did with Kronos/Mount Otris.

It's very improbable that Gaea will give the same considerations to put Manhattan to sleep. Kronos wanted power - not to destroy humanity. Gaea is a nesting mother who lost her kids - she wants chaos.

But with all giants here - wouldn't be easier to do this here? Even if they have no support whatsoever? If they tailed back to Long Island, would the giants run rampant through Europe?

They wait until after lunch - when everyone is more or less up - to congregate and vote.

"There are seventeen giants - one for each Olympian plus Trivia, Proserpina, and the Fates, except for Dyonisus who has two and the twins who share two - and nine of us."

"Fifteen" Retorts Percy from his place opposite to Jason "I killed Aristaeus - the bane of Proserpina - yesterday. And the bane of Ares... Damasen... he was a good giant. He didn't reform."

Jason doesn't argue - Perseus was the one on Tartarus - even though he wants to ask who helped him kill the giant - and if he killed them afterward.

Fifteen is still a staggering number of giants. They have no chance alone - so after Delos, they solve to make their last stand on Camp Half-Blood.

Will, Perseus, and Jason are the ones to go down to the small island. Finding Apollo is exceptionally easy: it's just a matter of following the sound of the lyre.

He laughs at their request - full-blown laugh. Jason wants to punch him - the world is ending.

"There's no need for flowers. You already have the Physician's Cure. This is a name my son gave to his union to Zagreus - life and death."

Jason wants to scream. He wants to kill Nike - who is in her island, chilling after sending them in a goose chase. But Perseus and Will are already miles ahead of him - whatever happened last night unlocked something in him, even if the gloves never left.

"You'll come to Long Island. You'll fight - for as long as needed - against Orion and Gration." It's Will - defying his own father. Jason doesn't know if he has the courage.

"Promise - on your immortality, because I don't trust the Styx."

"I could still evaporate you"

"You won't. You need us too much."

Apollo promises - maybe because he sees everything and knows more than Jason about whatever will happen, maybe because that ax still bears gold in it - and exchanges some words with Will that neither of them hear as they walk back on board to tell the news.

Will and Percy disappear into a room - it makes something stir in Jason's stomach, as he remembers that he no longer knows this Perseus, but the one he knows, he loves.

Will and Perseus talk for hours - before being invaded by Leo - only to keep talking until the next morning.

"Change course to Athens. We have the Physician's Cure. Gaea will rampage through Europe. Hercules is on her side. There's no way we can go back now."

They agree - there's no crossing Hercules little island again.

An IM from Reyna cements their decision. A group of demigods serving Gaea - including the Censor that unjustly tried Hazel and was exiled - tried ambushing she and her sister - but the Amazons and the Hunters won against them. Thalia is alive - and she drove an arrow through Gwen's eye, the traitor in Nova Roma.

The Hunters called the Pegasi - and they all set course to Athens - while Reyna followed the statue who set course by the sea. Pegasus himself is going to Athens - he fought once against the Giants, he would do again.

They reach Athens in a little more than five hours. It's the last day of their time - and they are ambushed as soon as they cross the Parthenon.

They fight well - Gaea wants Perseus and Piper, so they rally around them.

Perseus is a fighting beast himself, but he is overwhelmed by the sheer number of monsters and unable to help others. He kills the Minotaur once again - the armies of monsters are almost endless - is the battle of Manhattan all over again.

Piper strikes against the three gorgons - Medusa can't petrify anyone without petrifying her own allies - and keeps the head as a prize.

Nico is in the sky - he looks like part of the storm. The flying monsters rally around him, but Nico doesn't disappoint - his sword cuts through them like butter.

In the end, the nine annihilate the whole army - Gaea has just her giants now.

But in the fray, two griffins escape - carrying with them Jason and Hazel. Now they have no option but to follow.

Perseus almost hits his head on the wall. Why was he so dumb? Gaea was playing them. Gender had nothing to do with the sacrifice - it's just one of the sea, one of the earth. And Hazel, as much as she is a daughter of the sky, her powers exist on earth.

He could deal with the bounty hunt on him. Even on Piper - just a person to protect - but not on two. He was not expecting this. Perseus thinks Gaea must be laughing right now.

He feels guilt creep on him. That was his plan, and now two of his best friends are gone in the sky. Leo looks even worse than him - he is weeping as if the two demigods are already dead. They probably are.

Annabeth takes the reins - and they fly to the Acropolis quicker than ever. The ship slams against the ground - it probably needs repairs. But they are here.

Jason doesn't remember feeling that much pain. He wakes up, chained in a sacrificial altar, Hazel just behind him. Their powers don't answer - the chains are as dark as Perseus' ax: stygian iron. In front of them, Porphyrion and Polybotes laugh.

"We'll be glad to offer your fathers your severed heads"

He wishes to talk back - but his mouth doesn't work. It's Clytius taking his voice away, right behind them - holding a scyther that is not unfamiliar. Is the same scyther that took Uranus manhood - the same one that cut him to pieces and reduced him to the sky.

"We take an arm from the daughter of the earth, blood and flesh, so that her connection with the ground is given to our Mother, so she is able to reclaim her dominion."

There's blood everywhere. Hazel's left arm is twitching on the floor, and she lets out an ear-splitting scream, before passing out.

"We take the ability from reproduce from the son of the sea, blood and flesh, so that his fertility will be given to our Mother, so she is able to reproduce again, the ability his father took from her."

Jason feels like the world is spinning. They will... they... they want to castrate him. He sees Hazel's blood staining the marble and the floor, running through his skin, and he wants to vomit - but something is preventing him from doing so.

Hazel is paling fast - she'll be dead in thirty minutes if they don't stop the bleeding. But he can't move. He can't help. A scream strangles in his throat.

If Hazel's voice was able to cut through Clytius magic, would his powers too? If he focused enough if he stretched himself enough.

Jason forces himself to stop thinking about the chanting, and focus. He imagines Nico - with no family, losing Hazel. Or Frank and Leo. Or Perseus. He pushes and pushes.

He doesn't find a source of water - but he feels her blood. He can stop it from coming out - just for a second, just for a minute, just until they rescue them.

They are going to rescue them. They are - none of them are dying today. They have to survive this war.

Jason focuses his thoughts on good things. After this, he is going to go to college. He is going to spend time with his sister. He'll work on greek-roman relations. He'll ask the male Praetor on a date. He'll punch Octavian. Everything will be just fine.

The scyther is just over Clytius head, ready to strike when an arrow takes its place in his eye. Thalia, mounted on Pegasus, barges in. The horse is bigger than Clytius - and he takes their chains, before flying off to the arena.

Thalia cuts his chains - throwing a gladius at him. Hazel is still passed out - curled into herself in the ground. Jason stands before her, still doing his best to keep her blood inside. It won't work for long.

The giants follow them - but to no effect. The ship crashes between them, the demigods jumping off - armed to the teeth. With a scream of war, the Amazons and the other Hunters come flying in their own Pegasi.

Reyna is not with them - Jason hopes, not for the first time, that the demigod settlements are in peace. That they won't have to deal with two battlefronts.

It's not the time for petty wars. They should be here, helping, if they were not caught up in past fights of over a hundred years ago. Gaea is much more urgent than whatever they are debating.

These fighters are not enough - they are fighting a losing battle. No gods are coming, and between immortal hunters and Amazons, no one is a deity.

Jason starts thinking he is hallucinating - wishful thinking - for the sky opens, and from there descents all the Olympians and Hecate. Nike is the first to appear, guiding the chariot of Zeus, a scream of battle in her lips.

Juno is in a chariot guided by peacocks. Behind her, Aphrodite - that's not Venus, but Jason has never seen Aphrodite so ready for war. There are no doves or flowers in her - just a giant bow and arrow and a spear, riding in a horse side by side with her husband and her lover.

All twelve Olympians, plus Hades, plus the Fates, plus Trivia, Nike, Juventa, Bia, and Enyo. Proserpina is not there - nor the court of Atlantis.

Jason can't help but think is too little too late. Why they didn't show before? Before Hazel lost her leg? Before Malcolm died? Before Perseus fell? Before this journey took everything from them?

The gods pair off with their children - Hades with Perseus, Athena with Annabeth, Aphrodite with Piper, Mars with Frank, Zeus with Nico, Hephaestus with Leo, Juno with Hylla, Thalia with Poseidon.

Before pairing with Will - who looks reluctant to do it - Apollo comes to them. Jason is good enough to go - but he won't leave Hazel.

"I can't regrow her arm - not here, not now. And never, if it has been amputated by a titan weapon. The best I can do is close it."

Jason is so tired of the gods being unable to do stuff they should be capable of, but he sighs and nods. Hazel's color starts coming back, even if she doesn't wake up.

It's Trivia who comes to take the place of Jason. He stalls - he doesn't trust any deity anymore with the well-being of his friends - but they are not much, and they need him to fight. He joins Ceres as she raises a sickle to go against her bane - Asterius.

The hunters follow their mistress and Amazons divide themselves between the remaining gods - Dyonisus and Mercury - and they attack.

It's not enough. They are stretched too thin. Clytius is the only fallen one after thirty minutes of battle - Trivia burns him down in rage for her acolyte and makes a still groggy Hazel make a little cut on so he dissolves.

Perseus fights alongside his father, mounting Mrs. O'Leary as he does Cerberus. Small Bob can't die unless struck by celestial bronze, so the giant's effort to kill the creature is useless. Both of them don't hold back. It's the first time he really remembers his training with the Lord of the Dead. But mostly, he remembers Persephone too, and the gardens of the Underworld.

Percy has to go back to her. To his stepmom, and his mom, and his other stepmom. He has to go back to his life - the life he can barely remember now, but that was everything for him.

He has to go back to the gardens and the lakes, to blue cookies and bare feet. At least one of the rulers had to be in the Underworld, so Persephone is waiting for them to come back.

It gives Perseus strength. They have to win, so the earth can prosper - so that they can go back to the Underworld. So he can meet Thanatos, and play with Cerberus, and debate with Charon. So that they can be a family.

They keep fighting, but even with Perseus renewed will, there's no winning. Alcyoneus retorts them blow for blow and they tire quickly. Hades turns to him - there's a grim expression in his face when he throws his helmet to Perseus.

Perseus notices to late what his father is about to do - and is unable to prevent it.

"FATHER"

It's the first time he recognizes it. Hades has always been the lord of the dead to him - he only ever called him father in mockery. But this time, it's yelled in anguish.

"Tell Kore that I love her."

A giant blow from the Lord of the Dead makes both of them stumble. The giant falls to the floor, but not before running his sword through Hades' neck.

It's the first god to fall, and when Perseus cuts Alcyoneus' head in return, he stays dead. But it's not enough, because Hades is dead.

He'll have to tell Kore. Kore that loves Hades so much that she leaves the surface for months on end to stay with him. He'll have to tell her that he wasn't enough to save Hades.

Cerberus whine loudly and tries to wake his master - he sniffs at the ground soiled by ichor. No giant is able to approach the body or Perseus - Cerberus growls at every enemy who tries. Small Bob stays by his side, fighting alongside him.

A tear escapes his eye. After so much time, so much resentment, he didn't think he would care. His father lies on the floor like a puppet with the strings cut - and Perseus rages. He closes his father's eyes but doesn't stop - there's still a war going on, so he puts on the Helm of Darkness and goes on to join Ceres and Jason.

A scream rings through the arena - is Poseidon, noticing his oldest brother is gone. He throws his trident at Polybotes head - between him and Thalia, the giant is gone in the next ten minutes.

The god of the sea runs through the field, stepping through dead bodies and avoiding the corner where Trivia is taking care of Hazel. He clutches his brother's prone body and cries, ichor staining his clothes. Cerberus whines at his sound - it's heartbreaking.

Across the field, all four siblings cry together for their fallen brother, but none of them as badly as Poseidon. There's a cold spreading through the field - and soon enough, the sky opens again.

It's Vesta. The last Olympian - the one who stayed behind to tend to the hearth. But now, she looked as fiery as her nephew - descending from the sky with no armor or chariot. The eldest child.

Family - that's Vesta domain. Perseus never saw her fight, but she does this time - throwing herself against the closest giant - Gration.

But Hades is not the last to fall.

Between Jason and Perseus, there's no match for Asterius. Ceres cuts his head off, still sobbing for her son-in-law and brother, sobbing for her widowed child. It doesn't help when her sister falls by her side - Juno, in full battle armor, is cut in half by Eurymedon.

Perseus thinks it might be a scene worthy of being painted - her lifeless eyes stare at the sky, as her crown rolls off her and stops at the giant's feet. Hylla keeps on fighting - now joined by her mother, who changes from Enyo to Bellona.

Zeus, in rage for his wife's death, kills Porphyrion before striking against Eurymedon with his general and her daughter. Nico, even if he never cared for Juno, follows suit - there's a path of destruction behind them, where lightning bolts hit the floor and filled the ground with craters.

Dyonisus kills Elphiates with his oldest daughter by his side, but his brother doesn't die as easily. Athena is still fighting against Enceladus - Annabeth striking the giant from all angles, in perfect synchrony with her mother, with help from Nike, who shields them both with her wings.

Mars and Mercury fight against Hippolytus - but he is faster than even the god of travelers, and evade them at every turn. Frank is a dragon, and then an elephant, and a snake - but nothing hits the giant.

After a blow on the arm by Bia, Periboea spears the still masculine body of Piper. Her blood falls from in-between her legs as Aphrodite - scarier than even Ares - runs her spear through the giantess's eye, killing her.

To save her daughter, Aphrodite shifts her completely into a girl - it's jarring, and something that takes adaptation, but the only way she can keep fighting without dropping.

But it's too late, the damage is done. Gaea is awake, by the seed of a daughter of the sea. Perseus exchanges a look with Leo through the fray - Mimas is just defeated, as Hephaestus smashed his head in with his hammer, but he regenerates quickly as if nothing happened.

There's no winning anymore. The fallen giants don't rise again - the Doors are closed - but the seven remaining ones don't die either - Enceladus, Eurymedon, Orion, Mimas, Otis, Hippolytus, and Thoon - their mother healing all their injuries.

The gods that killed their banes rally together against Gaea - but it's futile. It's just like Perseus in Tartarus - there's no battling a primordial in their own turf.

Will leaves his father to battle Orion, with his sister and the hunters - as Gration lays, probably dead, across the feet of his brother, courtesy of Vesta - and joins the duo.

The three of them sprint through the muddy ground, and onto Festus. There's no winning from Gaea on the ground - but they might have one way.

"Don't let me die, okay?"

Will and Percy join hands across Leo's forehead - and try to bless him the best they can, without being gods themselves. A green sheen covers Leo - and this might be it.

Leo mounts Festus - now again a giant dragon - and rises to the sky. It is enough to attract the Earth. She leaves her battle against Vesta, Aphrodite, Bia, Poseidon, and Ceres - to go after the dragon.

"Trying to escape me, my little demigod?"

An explosion of fire rocks the sky. It's not enough to kill Gaea, but between Zeus' thunder and Leo's explosion, the primordial is unconscious.

Perseus focuses - on keeping Leo's soul in his body. Will, by his side, shines as Apollo himself - there's a sheen of sweat in his face. It might've worked

None of them have the power to kill her now - just the union of all the remaining Olympians would even be capable of rendering her asleep again.

They can't find Festus or Leo - Perseus renders this as a good sign, the sign that their powers were enough.

But for now, with her unconscious, she can't heal the giants. So the remaining gods do quick work of killing them - the last to fall is Eurymedon, with Zeus' bolt across his forehead.

The king of the gods falls on his knees and weeps. Juno is dead. Hades is dead. There are six hunters and twenty amazons remaining - from tens and hundreds.

Mrs. O'Leary died - from a stray arrow. Cerberus paws the ground where her dust is - Perseus can't even imagine his puppy back on Tartarus.

Nike - both wings pointing into different sides, spine broken by Enceladus foot - is sprawled on the ground. Her unblinking eyes stare at Athena, who is holding her hand.

"Did... did we... win?"

"Y-yes"

"Give them the... the crowns... don't forget..."

"I won't"

"There's no... no friends.... in victory. I wish I had... someone."

"I am your friend, Nike"

"My best one... don't let them forget.... champions don't die..."

"Never"

She gags in her own blood. It drips around her chin. It's the first time Perseus sees Athena cry. It hits him - they, all of them, have known each other for thousands of years.

Mars is crying by his mother's head, his spear broken on his feet. Juventa, burned blonde hair blowing around her face, hugs Hephaestus as he cries for their mother - the one that never cared for them, but that was their mother anyway.

Vesta has Hades head on her lap, while his body lays broken on the floor. Ceres is trying to calm Poseidon - but the god of the sea can't stop crying.

On the other side of the Arena, most demigods are together around Hazel - Will is explaining about Leo, but most of them look hopeless. Hazel is crying in Frank's arms.

Eight of them are here - Hazel is missing an arm, Piper went through a jarring body change and Frank has a broken leg - but eight of them are alive, and there's hope for Leo.

Perseus stands in the middle - not joining the gods or the demigods. He looks at the ichor stained floor, the upcoming battle against Gaea looming. Cerberus and Small Bob are together on each side of him.

Apollo - from where he is laying with his unconscious, but alive, sister - raises to help the demigods. None of them are happy about any godly presence - but they need treatment, so they let it happen.

Perseus is the first to break the silence after everyone is healed. Some gods are still crying - but there's no time for grief now. He doesn't look at where his father lays dead - he can't process this right now.

"We... we need to go. To Long Island. We need reinforcements - the war isn't over."

"We need to recharge" Is Hephaestus that retorts "There's no way we can fight right now. Maybe in a day or so but..."

"I don't think we have this time." Jason points "We could try and stall things, prepare... Can you send us there?"

"I can" Say Pegasus, who was fighting alongside Thalia.

Perseus wants not to care. To say that Juno or Nike deserved it. But it's not fair - not even them deserve to die, to go back to the void or Tartarus to reform or be lost for centuries.

Annabeth, however, sits in her corner with the ghost of a smile in her lips - so many demigod's lifes lost for them, for their petty struggles, and now they have to pay the price too. Everyone is paying the price now.

If they helped before, if they didn't spend months cooperating with Juno's useless plan, perhaps now no one would be dead. They could have united the demigods without waisting eight months on stupid missions to kill giants - just for them to come back.

If they stopped thinking about their "oh so bad" split personalities, maybe they could've made this journey quicker, instead of letting them spend two months going in side-quests, fighting minor gods, and retrieving useless information.

So yes, Annabeth is vindicated. This - all of this, those deaths, the ichor soiling the ground - it's their fault.

Piper feels tired. This - this body, this recognition from her mother - is all she ever wanted. But now that she has it, she can't even appreciate it. Was it worth it? She would give everything back for Perseus' leg, Hazel's arm, Malcolm, Leo.

She looks at their mismatched little family - and remembers that yesterday, they had lunch together - all of them. It was not the best moment, but they were laughing.

They could've been happy. If they weren't demigods, most of them would be in college by now. They wouldn't be broken.

Perseus solves to travel by shadows with Cerberus - he still has his father's Helm, and the immortal horse won't let him mount with it. He feels sick - that's his father's dog and his father's armor. But that's their chance of survival.

No god look at him when he melts into the darkness - it's too fresh, too painful. Part of their family is dead.

She jumps on the Pegasus, holding Hazel up - she can barely hold on to her brother in front of her. The wound is closed, but the daughter of Jupiter is off-balance - there's nothing on her right side.

Hazel closes her eyes and rests her head across Nico's back - she is so tired. Leo is gone - maybe forever - and she doesn't have an arm. There's nothing there - nothing. She goes to move and she forgets it for a second - but then she tries to hold tighter to Nico and can't.

Nico feels his sister's tears on the back of his shirt and holds tight to Frank - who is almost strangling Will in his efforts not to panic - he is flying over the sea.

Jason is behind Piper - he is the last one - and he is much more comfortable. That's his half brother after all.

They land in Long Island after ten painful hours - and Will seethes, because their journey could have been so easy, so small - but the gods were too occupied by their insignificant problems that they had to journey for months.

One after the other, they dismount just shy of the river - Jason thinks the naiads look mad when Frank vomits all over their water.

"Flying on a ship is a thing. Flying on a horse is another."

He stills looks queasy when they cross the Pavillion. There's no one there, which is weird because it's morning. There's no one anywhere.

Perseus - powered by the Helm - is the first to get there - almost two hours before them. And the first thing he listens makes him utterly mad.

"Give our soldiers back - or Nova Roma will strike back!"

It's Octavian's voice coming from the hill that harbors Thalia's tree - and Perseus sighs. He looks at himself - he needs a shower, and sleep, and food. They need traps. They don't need a second war.

He is in no condition to fight right now. So he'll have to put his diplomatic skills to use - just the reminder of his father's death sparks a dull pain in his chest - still covered in ichor and dust, his ax slung over his shoulder.

Cerberus stays by his side. Perseus sends Small Bob to Persephone through the old Labyrinth entrance - he needs the big dog, but the skeleton tiger would just be easy prey.

"TWELVE LEGION, STOP"

Perseus looks mightly tired as he takes on the scene - the greeks following Clarisse, Connor, and Lou, the Romans following Octavian and Mike Kahale. Reyna between them, with the gigantic statue.

The demigod looks between his first and his second family, none that he ever fit right, both of which he was the leader, and hold on to Cerberus.

"We - and by we, I mean nine of us, greeks and Romans, the Amazons, and the hunters - just defeated fifteen giants, with the gods. In Athens. We could've - and should've - had reinforcements."

"Percy-" Connor starts, but Percy raises a hand to stop him. There are shadows curling against his arms - his celestial bronze leg shines under the Athena Parthenos.

"I may have been gone for a while, but I'm still your leader - and their Praetor. You choose me to lead - both of you. Me, and Reyna, and Annabeth, and Frank, and Jason."

"Praetor Jackson-"

"Shut the hell up Octavian, this is all your fucking fault" Intercedes Reyna.

"I went through Tartarus - for a month - because of that damned statue, to close the Doors so you could be safe. I don't care about your petty little problems now - Earth has risen."

"IT'S A LIE, IT'S ALL LIES" Screeches Octavian.

"How can you know? You were here, raising trouble and creating unnecessary problems while we went on the freaking mission to save the world."

Octavian tries to reply, but Reyna's sword in his throat stops him.

"My father is dead. The gods are coming - but we need to stall Gaea. There's no time for this."

"I say kill him." Replies Reyna.

"I agree." Says Perseus, to the surprise of no one "We're the Praetors of Nova Roma. Our word is the law. For treason against our people, you're condemned to death, Octavian Simmons."

"Apollo will curse you for this!" Are his last words as Reyna cuts his head off. Mike Kahale backs down - no one would dare to go against them, not when Perseus is holding the symbol of his father in his hands and the Guardian of Hell in his side.

"Now that... that was solved, let's prepare for the true war. Gaea is coming - in hours from now. We have to hold on until the gods come."

They enter the Camp - the Greeks and the Romans aren't a unit, but at least they all trust Perseus, who sits on the top of the amphitheater with Reyna, and they wait until the others get there. Jason is the first to come to sit down by them - followed by the other six.

"I won't ask you to trust each other. I ask you to fight - with all that you can. Juno and Pluto, or Hera and Hades, are dead." Cries erupt from that, but silence quickly at Reyna's fulminant look "Nike, or Victory, has also fallen. Pray for your parents - burn food, whatever - so that they can take strength. They should be here in a few hours. We just need to hold on."

"Romans and Greeks - no one will survive if we don't fight. Together. For now, you take your orders from Reyna and Clarisse." It's Jason who completes.

Reyna and Clarisse sit down to discuss ideas - they don't trust each other, but are both daughters of war - and their objectives are simple. Lou goes to call her brother as Connor joins the table - Alabaster apparently refused to join the battle against the Romans.

While Romans and Greeks trade strategies and weapons, the travelers rest. Perseus is the first to fall asleep - holding his father's Helm of Darkness like a teddy bear, while most of the others keep their distance from it.

Cerberus makes the campers stay away from the eight. Two of his heads sleep and one keeps growling at whoever gets too close.

Annabeth is the last to fall asleep - she joins the strategy group for about thirty minutes before joining her quest mates behind the giant dog - it sniffs at her. She wonders if remembers the red rubber ball.

They have eleven hours to plan and rest. It's a miracle - Leo managed to knock Gaea down for 21 hours, almost a day.

At least is enough time for everyone to sleep and eat and plan traps. It won't be enough against the primordial, but it might just hold her for a while. They have no way of causing explosions to Leo's proportion - at least they have numbers.

Gaea rises from the earth like an evil mountain - she is the ground. Some of them - the ones on bare earth - die immediately, sucked into the mud as it turns to quicksand.

Frank takes the lead as the whole army charges against the goddess, striking again and again in every part they can find.

They last the three hours before the gods appear - but they lose two-thirds of their forces. Mangled corpses are everywhere on the battlefield.

The gods win - against a tired Gaea - without major losses for themselves. There's no need to recount their battle, for they will lord about it for many centuries.

What counts, however, is the deaths on the demigods' side - the ones who will be forgotten in the shadow of their parents' victory.

Connor sobs over the almost unrecognizable body of his brother, who died holding hands with Katie Gardner, being veiled by her sister, Miranda.

Hazel is helping Alabaster to find his sister, who missing somewhere in the rubble with the other 56 demigods, who are unaccounted for. The first they find is Clarisse - her still hot corpse trying in vain to protect Chris Rodriguez.

Jason holds Thalia's circlet - the only remaining thing of the Lieutenant of Artemis, who came into the battle with her mistress and died to save her. There are just two hunters alive. The sister he barely knows - and won't ever have the chance now.

Piper holds on to him - she can't bear to look as Mitchell and Ariel mourn little Lacy, killed by a fallen tree. Drew died taking a stone to the head for Piper - she doesn't know how to feel about it.

Will would help - but sadness devours him. Of his whole Cabin, he is the sole survivor. All greek children of Apollo are gone. His boyfriend is also dead - his metal foot caught on the quicksand, and he was swallowed by the earth.

Nyssa mourns her siblings - Jake, Leo, Thalassa, Kira. There's only six of them now - back to where they were just after the first war.

Reyna is alive - although with half of her face burned. Hylla - the last of the Amazons - hovers over her, tending to her injuries.

The smaller cabins help each other - there wasn't a lot of them at first, and now there is even less. Cabin 17 has no demigod alive - and won't ever house one again.

Frank is helping the legion to unearth the bodies and rescue the survivors - it's weird to see a giant mole with only an eye. He is the one who holds Hazel's hand as they have to break Lou Ellen's arm to take her from under a pillar.

Grover died protecting Juniper from Gaea's earthquakes. He became a little juniper tree, side by side with hers. Coach Hedge is the only satyr from Camp Half-Blood left.

But maybe the worst scene is where the Pavillion once was - Perseus Jackson is flicking in and off, large gashes in his torso. Hazel is the one to find him. Most of the survivors - and the eight travelers - stop to look. It's their leader, their savior.

Nico holds his head as blood pools under them - the irony, Perseus took a boulder in the chest for him, flying across the Camp at the end of the battle, and Nico was again unable to catch the hero.

Annabeth sobs over his body, screaming. She lost Luke to the gods. She lost Thalia to the gods. She lost Malcolm to the gods. She lost Leo to the gods. She lost Grover to the gods. Everyone is gone - she won't lose Perseus too.

"FIX HIM" She screams at Apollo "FIX HIM"

Apollo shakes his head sadly. In his benefit, he managed to save all demigods who still held on after battle - and most of their limbs - but Perseus is too far gone.

"FIX HIM! HE SAVED YOU. ALL OF YOU. HE DESERVES TO LIVE!"

"Annabeth, he is beyond-"

"YOU ARE GODS! WHAT ARE YOU FOR?"

"We can't, child"

Annabeth doesn't relent. She lost too much. She lost everything. They took all she was, all she had. She won't fail Perseus.

"Immortalize him."

"Annabeth, no-"

"Shut up, Nico" She barks. There's a mad look in her eyes. "You didn't let Heracles die, and he deserved it far less. Save Percy. Make him a god. You have the Fates right there."

Most of the gods look uncertain. Perseus denied immortality the last time - but they couldn't let the hero die.

"DO IT"

No one disagrees with her. Most of their friends - the ones who know Perseus better, who aren't blinded by grief - look horrified.

Nico would argue strongly - but he promised himself that no harm would come upon Perseus after Tartarus. So he backs off - better than he hates them forever than dead.

Zeus is the one who finally takes a step forward. Perseus soul is almost leaving him - it's now or never.

"All in agreement?"

The gods nod and raise their hands over his prone body. It burns so brightly everyone has to look away

When they look again, there's Perseus - still missing a leg, but better than ever. He looks like his father - uncannily so. There are tears in the corners of Ceres's eyes. Poseidon can't look.

Juventa brings the jar of nectar - she is the one who can grant eternal life, the one who guards over her mother's apples. She puts the jar to his lips, and the boy - the god - wakes up, disoriented.

"W-what... h-how am I here? I-I was with Charles and... and Ethan..." He mumbles under his breath, looking lost.

The Fates look at him - but there's no pity in their eyes. He sees again the blue line being cut - is his life. It's gone. Even before they speak, he knows what happened.

"Earthopener, The Silent One, The Rich One, Lord of the Dead. Hail Perseus, the Underworld God"